


A Bitter, Better Truth

by Trobadora



Series: Desire 'verse [3]
Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM romance, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It Aftermath, Sex Magic Aftermath, Slow Burn, UST, includes cover art, references to past noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-06-30 17:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15756336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: He could still feel it, just under his skin – the force and the rush of it, and more than that, the way he'd let himself fall into it, resisting not at all. Letting go – that had felt better even than the clarity of anger, a release without shame or destruction, without collateral damage.It had been a sham, of course. The collateral damage had been himself.InA Draught of Deep Desire, a Zaubertrank made them do it. This is the aftermath.





	1. Cover art

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time since I started this story, but thanks to WIP Big Bang it's finally here. Many thanks to Shopfront and Wojelah for their help!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful cover art by mekare!

_Nick and Renard arguing_ \- cover art by [mekare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mekare)


	2. Chapter 1

  
Nick drove with his hands clenched around the steering wheel, every muscle and sinew drawn tight. His eyes were narrowed to slits in a determined effort to focus on the road ahead. It had gone dark, and he was on his way to meet Renard.

He was heading out of the city, and he'd already left the streetlights behind. The headlamps' twin cones of light illuminated only a small stretch of road in the darkness. Not that it mattered. Nothing felt quite right, or real, at the moment. Nothing had, not since the afternoon. Not since he'd walked away from that apartment, and from Renard. 

_Renard's eyes, dilated, staring at him. Renard's hands on him, strong and firm –_

Nick swallowed, tensing further as gooseflesh shivered over his skin. He'd been lost in the haze of the potion; they both had been. Drugged into it, by a Zaubertrank's magic. It was over; he needed to put it behind him now.

Easier said than done.

And wasn't that enough to deal with? But on top of all of that he'd discovered that Captain Renard was embroiled in what had happened with Adalind and the key, that he wasn't what he'd seemed. Though what he was instead, Nick still had no idea. _Damn, why didn't I press for answers earlier?_

But he knew why he hadn't. _That apartment. Renard with his clothes all in disarray. Nick's jeans, pulled up over thighs and ass crusted with Renard's come, raw with the aftermath of what had happened. The feeling of Renard all over him,_ in _him, everywhere._ He'd needed to get away, to wash it all off, to regain his balance. 

Yeah, right.

Instead, they were meeting in the evening, outside the city, by a cabin in the woods. But Nick felt no closer to balance than he had hours ago. Besides, that cabin ...

It was his own fault, ultimately. _Somewhere we won't be disturbed,_ Nick had demanded: no bystanders, no witnesses. Renard had agreed, unperturbed by the implicit threat, and suggested a location. A very particular one.

The cabin belonged to a Blutbad postman, and the little girl he'd kidnapped had been Nick's first Wesen-related case – the first he'd solved as a Grimm. Renard knew about that, too. His commanding officer, a man he'd respected and trusted. A good man, he'd believed. But it was clear now that nothing about Renard was what he'd thought.

Nick had once had two solid things in his life that had nothing to do with being a Grimm: Juliette, and the precinct. Adalind's vengeance had targeted Juliette with Wesen magic she couldn't understand or resist, had taken her from Nick by taking her memories of him – and now he'd found that even his captain wasn't the ordinary human he'd seemed. Was no part of Nick's life allowed to be simple and normal?

 _Damn._ Renard must have known about Nick from the very start. He'd known, and had said nothing. Might never have said anything, if not for today. Had he been pulling Nick's strings all this time, pushing him in the direction he wanted the Grimm to take?

Anger burned in Nick's veins, and he welcomed it, let it sear through him. But the single-minded clarity of fury refused to come. What had happened this afternoon – what Adalind had done –

Nick swallowed against the sudden phantom press of Renard's cock at the back of his throat, the taste of him on his tongue. It refused to go away. 

Damn, how was he supposed to look Renard in the face, like this? It was all too vivid, too close. Worst of all, Renard's parting words kept echoing through him: _Magic can make you want anything, but it can't make you like it._ How was he supposed to -

_Focus, Nick. Focus on the questions._

What did he know? Only what he'd seen, and what Renard had admitted to. Renard was Wesen; he was strong – strong enough to throw Nick across the room, to hit him and make it hurt –

It rushed through him with the force of remembered impact, a shameful flush of arousal – _breath knocked out of him as he crashed into the floor; a vicious backhanded slap across the face; a hand coming down on his ass, again and again_ –

Nick gritted his teeth against it and punched down the air conditioning as low as it went. He could still feel it, just under his skin – the force and the rush of it, and more than that, the way he'd let himself fall into it, resisting not at all. Letting go – that had felt better even than the clarity of anger, a release without shame or destruction, without collateral damage. 

It had been a sham, of course. The collateral damage had been himself. 

Memory, still horribly erotic, was mixing with a simmering fury that Nick barely managed to bottle up. Damn it, he didn't want it, that feeling, that false promise, that manufactured temptation. But he had nothing to lash out at, no target before him. 

Not yet. He was driving towards a meeting with Renard, after all. Still, whatever else Renard had done, whatever he was after – he hadn't wanted this. He'd had it forced on him by Adalind, just like Nick. And he'd probably punch Nick's lights out if he had even an inkling of what was going on in Nick's mind. _God._ What Nick had done in the shower, earlier ...

No. No, he couldn't think about that. Mustn't remember. He needed to stay in the present, put it all behind him. But it was all coming back instead: the sense memory overwhelming him, the shameful arousal. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel in grim resistance.

_His fist closing around his cock, giving in –_

No.

Nick forced his thoughts back to what mattered. Renard had lied to him from the start. He couldn't be trusted. Who the hell was he? There was precious little Nick was certain about. He was Wesen; he'd known about Nick. And Adalind had worked for him. 

_Yes, focus on that, Nick._

All the things Adalind had done – trying to kill Aunt Marie, going after Hank, blackmailing Nick for the key – she'd done that at Renard's behest, hadn't she? It had all been him. He hadn't even denied it.

Something vicious unfurled in Nick's chest, and he slammed his fist into the passenger seat's upholstery. Anger had been his enemy all his life, a weakness he'd struggled to defeat. Now it seemed almost a refuge. Safe, in comparison. Real.

 _Wait._ At Renard's behest?

Nick had read up on Hexenbiests, back when he'd first encountered Adalind. Aunt Marie's books had quite a lot of information, but it was a particular sentence that suddenly stood stark and bold in front of his mind's eye. _They work at the behest of Royalty_ , the entry had read.

Royalty, just like Adalind's mother had said. There was a prince here in Portland; only he could have woken Juliette from her magic-induced coma. And Adalind had worked for Renard.

It was Renard.

  


* * *

  


The postman's old cabin, uninhabited for over a year now, was ramshackle and overgrown, ominous in the darkness. Nick stopped his car in front, next to the captain's. Like Renard, left the headlights on. Getting out of the car, he braced himself not just against a confrontation, but the man himself.

Renard looked tall and imposing in half-light and shadow. He was leaning against the driver's door in another one of his impeccable suits, perfectly turned out under his trench coat. As Nick circled around his car, he straightened, and his head came up. His eyes fixed on Nick.

It was a punch to the gut, being under that gaze. Nick felt Renard's presence like a physical force, a wave of pressure rolling over him. The bruises on his neck and chin suddenly throbbed with the memory of Renard's mouth biting, sucking. Most of them were hidden under his turtleneck and the collar of his jacket, but at least one of them was in plain sight. 

The green of Renard's eyes looked dark, almost alien in this light. Nick stared right back, not budging an inch. If Renard thought he could –

_No. Don't go down that road._

"So," Nick said darkly, keeping his voice level with some effort as he broke the silence, "you're the Royal here in Portland." That couldn't mean anything good, not the way Monroe talked about the Royal Families, not the way Nick's mother had. 

Renard's face twitched. In surprise? If so, he covered for it quickly, tilting his head to the side with what might almost be called a smile, if not for the sheer intensity behind it. "So you've figured that out. Good."

Mockery? Something superior, anyway. Nick wanted to wipe that look away, though damn if it didn't suit Renard. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly gone dry.

"And you're Wesen, too," Nick continued, resolutely barging past his own reaction. "I didn't think Royals were." 

Not that he knew much about Royals. It had never quite seemed relevant, like something out of a fairy tale. Not good. He felt unprepared, vulnerable, as if it wasn't bad enough that he was standing here in front of Renard with memories pressing against him, his body remembering every touch, every sensation, every thrill.

"They aren't." Renard's answer came quickly, with no hesitation. "My father was Royal; my mother was a Hexenbiest."

Hexenbiest? Nick suppressed a shiver. "And Adalind worked for you," he snapped, grasping for control – of the conversation, of himself – as they faced each other, neither looking away. 

"Yes. I told you that myself." Unperturbed, apparently. Renard had indeed admitted it before, as if it was nothing, as if he wasn't taking responsibility for Adalind's actions. As if those actions didn't matter at all.

Which, after today, was particularly rich.

Nick's fingernails dug into his palms, but he kept his hands at his sides. He hadn't come here for a fight, though god knew it would be easier. Nick could lose himself in that, and gain some semblance of himself. An earlier self, perhaps – a boy, furious at the loss of his parents, helplessly lashing out at the world – but a self he knew. A self he understood.

"What Adalind did to Hank," he continued instead, pressing on. "You were behind that."

"I was after the key," Renard said calmly. "But you already know that. Not that it matters any more."

Nick's eyes narrowed, and he let instinct take over, raising his fists just a fraction. "Hank could have died." 

Renard ignored the display of physical aggression. "I think you're aware by now that Adalind has her own methods, and her own agenda," he said, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. "But yes, I did order her to get close to him. I don't deny my responsibility. I don't deny that it was a bad call. What would you have me do about it? I can't exactly take it back." 

"Easy for you to say now," Nick snapped. _A bad call?_ He'd made that call, and had thought nothing of it, apparently. Was pretty damn nonchalant about it now. Looked cool and collected and self-possessed –

_No._

Renard glared. "As easy as giving back that key." 

He _had_ given it back, which made even less sense now that Nick knew what he'd done to get it, before.

"Why did you? If it's worth more to you than Hank's life."

Renard took single step forward, lifting both hands in a placating gesture. "I never meant for Hank to die. But I hope you understand that that key is worth more than a great many lives, to a great many people."

"Not an answer," Nick snarled. His entire body was aware of Renard's presence, mere steps away. It was only the force of Nick's anger that kept the memories at bay.

"My family has been after me to gain that key from you." Renard smiled, darkly. "My main goal, for some time, has been to keep it out of their hands. Now that I'm sure you will –"

Nick's fists came up all the way, and he made no effort to stop himself. "What, you were all selflessly trying to keep the key safe? Is that what you're trying to sell?"

God, it would feel so good to just punch Renard, to lash out and drown himself in anger and violence. But Nick needed to make sense of all this more than he needed that moment of relief. He needed to know where he stood with Renard. What he might have to do about Renard.

Renard's eyes flickered over Nick, but his expression was unreadable. "Selflessness? Trust me, keeping an instrument of power from my family is pure self-preservation on my part. I'm not your enemy, Nick."

"Aren't you?" He _sounded_ serious, granted. But whether that meant anything was irritatingly impossible to tell. After all, in over a year, Renard had never given away a single thing.

"Adalind targeted us both." Blunt, quick. Almost too quick. "And she's working for my family now."

Nick drew in a sharp hiss, and kept himself from flinching through sheer willpower. His fists uncurled, lowered. Adalind. She'd done this. She'd forced this on them both. She was the reason he couldn't stop thinking about –

He ruthlessly cut off the thought. "Your family. Not exactly close-knit, is it?"

Renard snorted. "My family would have been happier if I'd never been born." A considering look. "How much do you know about the Royal House of Kronenberg?"

Nick had never even heard the name. Damn, he should have asked Monroe. Should have called him from the road once he'd figured out who Renard was, before heading blindly into a confrontation with a Royal. Should have, and hadn't. "What about them?"

Renard's face showed clearly that he saw right through Nick – a classic _Captain Renard knows you haven't done your homework, Detective_ expression. Nick fought against a flush. 

"They've been after you for a while," was all Renard said. "And after me, to control you."

"What!" Surprise and anger drove the exclamation out of him before he could think whether to admit to the sentiment. Memory followed immediately after. Control him? Renard had. _Wrists tied behind his back, Renard's hand coming down onto his ass, being shoved forward and face down onto a sofa –_

A wordless noise escaped from Nick's throat. Renard stared at him, eyes widening, lips parted. 

Oh god. That wasn't what Renard had meant, what his family was after – of course it wasn't – but Nick's mind had gone there anyway. No, not his mind – it was Adalind's Zaubertrank. It was aftereffects, not him. 

_Keep telling yourself that._

And Renard had seen. Renard was seeing it right now. If he said anything, Nick wasn't sure what he'd do.

But the captain only blinked, and shook his head as if to dismiss what had happened. He took another step toward Nick. "Nick," he said, his voice pitched low, "I've protected you in situations you weren't even aware of."

Nick took refuge in flippancy. "Great. You want a bouquet?"

Something unreadable flickered over Renard's face. His fingers played briefly against the side of his coat, then abruptly stilled. "What you're doing here in Portland is a great threat to them, you know. They rule by fear, after all. And I've let them think they had my loyalty for years, but they're starting to realize they were mistaken. The two of us together ... believe me, they'll stop at nothing to prevent that from happening."

"Nice sales pitch," Nick said tightly, half relieved that Renard was sticking firmly to that subject, and half irritated by the relentlessness with which Renard kept pushing his agenda.

"That's what Adalind was doing – trying to drive a wedge between us. And much as it pains me to say," Renard added, "while the creativity was all hers, she's not the driving force behind what happened today."

"You said that earlier." Nick suppressed a shudder. Everything Renard said sounded perfectly reasonable, perfectly believable. But Renard had his own agenda, and what better to use for manipulation than the truth? It didn't mean the man could be trusted. Not at all. Still, a vengeful Adalind was bad enough on her own. "Are you sure?"

A wry smile. "I haven't wasted my time, Nick – I've made some inquiries this evening. She's on my family's payroll. GQR Industries – you can probably track that down yourself, if you try. She's here on their orders. My brother's, if I had to hazard a guess. He's always been particularly interested in taking anything I might have, and you fall under that category."

"Do I, now?" Nick snarled, taking a threatening step forward even as his mind recoiled from the insinuation. He couldn't let this stand. Questions about Renard's dubious truthfulness took a backseat as he drew himself up straighter, baring his teeth. "You don't have me." Deliberate, vicious. He had to lash out at someone.

Renard _had_ had him, though. Thoroughly, in just about every way, mere hours ago. Every moment was seared into Nick's memory, made him shiver with the slightest reminder. Which only made it worse when Renard came out with expressions like that.

But Renard's mouth opened, then fell shut as if he'd only just caught onto the innuendo. What, were those weird medieval attitudes so ingrained that the obvious other meaning hadn't even occurred to him? How very Royal. How very Wesen. Damn them all.

Finally, rallying, Renard sneered. "A distinction lost on them, I assure you."

"And on you?" Nick leaned forward, glaring straight into Renard's face. Something sizzled in the air, igniting – violence, or something else. _Violence, then._

Nick knew it never made anything better; he knew – but oh, the release felt so good. He'd only known one thing better –

He flushed with the sudden memory, with shame, and horrifyingly, with loss. _Damn, damn, damn._

Renard's sharp smile cut through Nick's internal freak-out. His voice was hard, not giving an inch. "You would like that, wouldn't you?"

Nick flinched, and heat rushed through him, uncontrollable. His skin was gooseflesh, raw, and he yearned for the single-minded focus of fury. But it was out of reach now, everything too mixed, too confused.

He clung to his anger, his lifeline. "Is that why you wanted my Aunt Marie dead? So you could control me?"

Renard winced in turn. "No." The words that followed were neither apologetic nor blithe, merely neutral. "She was a Grimm, and she had a key. I'm a Royal and a Zauberbiest."

As if that was a reason, rather than an excuse. But Nick's mother had thought the same, hadn't she?

"I'm a Grimm," Nick said, taking a threatening step forward, and only realizing after that how very close they'd come. Punching distance. Touching distance. Close enough to have to look up into Renard's face.

"So you are." Renard smiled thinly, looked down to meet his eyes, and kept talking as if they were still standing ten feet apart. Did nothing affect him? It was infuriating. "One who didn't grow up knowing what he was to become, which makes you an anomaly. I wasn't about to allow her to remedy that mistake."

"You're talking about my aunt," Nick reminded him with a snarl. "What did you think she'd do?"

"What do you think? Teach you how to be a Grimm her way," Renard snapped. "She was a killer, like most of your kind. You've seen the way even the most harmless of Wesen react when they find out what you are."

And that was uncomfortably true. Reasonable – too reasonable. Not reason enough for murder, but making some bizarre kind of Wesen sense. Still: "You're a killer. Aren't you." It wasn't a question.

And what a thing for one police officer to say to another. But that world seemed impossibly far away now. How he was supposed to go back to work on Monday, how he was supposed to face Renard at work, Nick had no idea.

Renard had been a good captain. Nick had never had even a hint that anything might be amiss. Still, he knew how impossible it was to live in two worlds, and not have them overlap. Renard was using his job, no question about it. But using it for what?

"I try not to be," Renard said after a moment, his face working. "But you know how difficult that can be. You did send two severed heads to Mannheim."

So he knew about the Reapers, too. Not really a surprise; even Nick's mother had heard of it. "You should have stopped at 'I try not to be'."

Renard blinked, and then visibly pulled himself back, needlessly smoothing down the lapel of his trenchcoat. "I'm sorry, Nick. With people like my family, you need to be ruthless, or you're dead."

"Right." 

Nick forced himself to take a steadying breath, to consider Renard's angle. What was he trying to convince Nick of? He was clearly pushing for something in particular, some kind of agreement between them. Joining forces against his family? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, it was all political, and all bulldozing right over what had happened this afternoon, what Adalind had done, as if none of it mattered. Nick was starting to find that seriously irritating.

Not that he _wanted_ to talk about that. God, no. But seeing Renard so unaffected only made it worse that he himself was struggling with flashbacks and phantom sensations every damn moment, that he could barely look at Renard without –

"I was wrong about your aunt. Or rather, about you."

Nick met Renard's penetrating gaze with belligerent confusion. "Wrong about what?" 

"She wouldn't have changed you. You're too stubborn." A thoughtful look. "I wonder if you might have changed her. But that would be no use against my family. Or Adalind. _They_ won't be pulling any punches. There's very little they wouldn't stoop to, if it gained them an advantage."

"Yeah? What would you stoop to?"

"Not this." No need to elaborate what _this_ was. 

Nick took a moment to consider whether he believed him. Adalind had worked for him, after all. But Adalind had gone after Juliette, too, and it must have been Renard who'd woken her.

Not to gain Nick's trust, either, since he'd kept it secret. He could have come forward then, made an offer, but he hadn't. Still, Renard hadn't just helped; he couldn't have. There had to be some purpose, some ulterior motive behind it all.

And then he could see it, suddenly and clearly, in front of his mind's eye, the Prince waking Sleeping Beauty from her cursed sleep: Renard's tall form bending over Juliette's unconscious body, leaning down, his mouth brushing against hers ... 

A flash of fury seared through Nick. But no. No, he had no business being jealous, not when it had been the only way to save Juliette. And especially not after what had happened between him and Renard. How could he?

Damn it, he needed answers, not this.

Nick nodded slowly, deliberately, straining for control, and looked up into Renard's face. "You woke Juliette, didn't you?"

Renard tilted his head and considered him, first in surprise, then with something darker. "Did Catherine tell you that?"

Catherine Schade, Adalind's mother. Of course Renard had known her. Too late, Nick remembered what had happened to the Hexenbiest. He threw a dark look back. "A prince, she said." He didn't volunteer any more. He wasn't going to be the one to escalate this, no matter how satisfying it would be to push for it. No matter how much of a relief it would be to cover all the memories and the confusion with simple, straightforward violence.

Maybe Renard would. Nick almost hoped so.

But Renard hesitated only for a fraction of a second, then visibly brushed the issue aside. _That again._ Damn it, what was it with the man? Had Renard always been this way, and he'd just never noticed?

"I did wake her, yes. With Catherine's expert help, I might add."

Nick ignored the jab. Taking a page out of Renard's book, getting back to the point. The question he'd meant to ask. "Why? Pretty sure that can't have been easy. It never is."

It was difficult, standing this close to Renard and not reacting in some way. But he was getting answers. That was what he needed. All he needed. It was.

"No. It wasn't." Renard lowered his eyelashes in thought. His face was entirely closed now, a distant, professional expression. "I told Catherine it was to bind you to Portland, and thus to me."

"What?" That was rapidly becoming his standard reaction to Renard's explanations. So far, it all had made sense in the end – but whatever world Renard inhabited, it was far from anything Nick might have expected.

"Mm. A very partial truth, I admit." Renard smiled wryly. "Had you lost Juliette to that coma, would you have left? Perhaps not. Probably not. But I'm not at all certain the man who'd stayed would have been one I'd have wanted to deal with."

Renard's words sent a chill through Nick. He wasn't sure if he was more appalled by the vision Renard conjured up – Juliette never waking from her coma at all, and everything that might follow – or by the coldness of a man who made such calculations before acting to save a life. "What exactly do you think I'd have done?"

Renard's eyes remained hooded. "You could have become a different kind of Grimm."

"I'm never going to be an indiscriminate killer," Nick snapped. "You should know me better than that." Hadn't Renard himself just said so, with regards to Aunt Marie changing him?

"Indiscriminate? No. But out for violence and vengeance? Very easily, I'm afraid." Renard offered a small smile. "I know the temptation of it, believe me."

"I see." He took a deep breath. "So that's all? You saved Juliette because you didn't want to have a less convenient Grimm on your hands?"

God, Juliette. He missed her so much. And how bizarre was it, to be discussing her with the man he'd had a magic-induced one-night stand with, just today? Nick's stomach clenched. How bizarre was it, to be constantly thinking of that man now, even if it was unwillingly? It hadn't been his fault; none of it had been. It still felt like he'd been unfaithful, like being unfaithful now.

"And because I could." The words came out quick, and Nick knew in his gut they hadn't been premeditated. "No one else in Portland could have, except me. So I did." A tired shake of the head. "I'm sorry it didn't turn out as well as we might have hoped."

Renard's expression seemed almost defiant, as if he'd said something he shouldn't, rather than finally come out with the thing any sane person would have led with. What the hell was wrong with the man?

"I'm going to kill Adalind," Nick whispered, harsh and bitter.

"Much as I sympathize with the impulse," Renard said after a moment, with clear regret, "that won't help. You can kill her, and this won't end. You can kill the next person they send, and it still won't end. Juliette was for revenge. Today was on order. And you've been there before, haven't you? Reapers. Verrat. That Mauvais Dentes, the Nuckelavee –"

Yeah, and Renard had watched it all happen, pulling god knew what strings in the background. Maybe he'd helped; maybe he hadn't. But it had all been his plotting, hadn't it?

"Did you enjoy that? Sitting there, watching them go after me? While I had no idea what was coming?"

"I did what I could –"

"Whatever. That's over now, you hear me? It stops with Adalind. I don't care what I have to do to make that happen."

Renard jerked his head once in sharp denial. "Nick, this isn't – it's not that simple." His voice was low, urgent, reasonable. Infuriating. "And let me just say, you wouldn't like what you'd need to do to truly put an end to this."

Nick snarled. "I don't care. This is personal. She made it personal. You can't stop me." He clenched a fist in front of his chest. "And what do you care what I like, anyway?"

Renard's eyebrows shot up, and Nick flushed, brought up short too late to stop the words. His breath quickening, Nick reined himself in with sheer force of will. Renard stood there, cool as a cucumber, ignoring Nick's threatening stance as if it didn't concern him at all, and there was nothing Nick wanted more than to punch him. He shoved his hand into a pocket instead, deep, pressing against the constricting cloth, restraining himself as he struggled for control.

Renard took a final step closer, right into Nick's personal space. "Listen, I know you don't want to want this."

It took effort to remain in place, to not step back. To not lash out. "Don't go there."

"Maybe we need to." Renard lowered his head, speaking down to Nick in barely more than a murmur. The air seemed to heat up around them. "I told you. What that potion did – magic's powerful, but we'd be having a very different problem if not for what you _like_."

Nick flinched, and heat flushed through him, uncontrollable. His heartbeat was pounding in his throat, in his ears, racing with the burn of building anger. A helpless fury all too familiar, and with none of the single-minded relief it had once brought. Damn, damn, damn.

"So you say," he forced out. "And what, I should take your word for it? Don't think I'm not going to double-check." No matter how hideously embarrassing it was going to be to have to ask Monroe, or Rosalee.

"You do that." Renard lifted his palms in an expansive shrug. "You know I'm right."

The world around him had narrowed to the two of them, the headlights of their cars carving out an arena for their confrontation. Nothing existed beyond.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Nick snarled, pulling his hand from his pocket. "You're not. I don't want –" Horrifyingly, his voice broke on the word.

"Don't you?" Mildly.

The punch was a reflex, almost. Nick could have held back, and didn't. He let himself throw his strength into it instead, and Renard stumbled several steps backwards with the force of it. There was blood on his lip. Nick breathed heavily, anticipation and relief shivering through him. 

He'd held back long enough. This was better. A fight, at last. 

Then Renard's fist was in his face. Nick's head snapped back with the impact, and it rushed through him: _his head hitting the door, the pain of it sharpening his senses; hands throwing him across the room; a brutal slap across his face that only heightened his arousal, vivid and overwhelming –_

Nick's cock twitched in his jeans, and an inarticulate noise tore itself from his throat, entirely against his will. He gasped, his chest suddenly too tight, staring blindly at Renard as the memory slowly subsided. Renard stared back at him.

No. _No._ This couldn't be happening. This couldn't have happened to him.

Nick flinched away belatedly, breathing rapidly, clenched his eyes shut for a moment – fleeing Renard's gaze more than anything. A few rapid, stumbling steps, away, just _away_ , and he slammed his fist into the nearest tree trunk, with all the force he could bring to bear. 

The tree creaked dangerously, but it was a distant noise behind the rushing of blood in his ears, behind the scraping of memory and shame on his skin, the aching pressure of his cock in his jeans. Nick hung his head, leaned his forehead against the bark of the tree, and struggled for breath. He felt naked, exposed, the layers of turtleneck and jacket no protection at all.

Footsteps rustled over old leaves behind him. He didn't turn.

"Nick."

Nick squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to punch Renard again. He couldn't. He'd lost even that last refuge, now. False promises all around.

"Nick, I –" Hesitation. "I don't –"

"Shut up," Nick ground out, fighting for control over his body.

"It gets to you," Renard said, the words too quick, clearly unplanned. "Of course it does. That's only natural. But you can't let it keep distracting you, or you'll be giving them exactly what they want – Adalind, and the Royals. Don't let them win. If you and I can work together –"

Nick whirled around, arousal shunted aside by sheer fury. He was shaking with it, with the kind of helpless anger he remembered only too well. How could Renard talk about Royals and their plans now? How dare he talk at him in that reasonable voice?

His fists were raised in front of his chest again, even though he knew he couldn't risk another punch. "Do you really think this is working?"

Renard's frowned. "Nick?"

"You have an explanation for everything, don't you. A plan for everything. Do you really think this is the time to negotiate?"

Nick's hands were trembling. His chest was aching. His jeans were still too tight. Nothing was right, any more. Nothing.

Renard took a step back, raised his hands in what seemed to be genuine surprise, his brow furrowing. "In my experience, it's always the time to negotiate," he said wryly. "I'm sorry if I –"

"Stop it!" Nick snarled. "I've had it with your reasonableness. Is all this – what Adalind did – is that just a political move to you? Does nothing affect you?"

Renard's eyes went wide. "Nick, I don't know what you –"

"Is that the Hexenbiest in you, or the Royal? Or do you just get callousness from both sides?"

This time, Renard flinched back as if struck. A moment later his head made an abrupt move, and suddenly he was right in Nick's face, woged. 

Nick had seen his woge for the first time this afternoon, that awful face half dead and desiccated, a Hexenbiest's corpse-like features emerging from human skin. It hadn't fazed him then. Without the Zaubertrank's haze, it was among the most disconcerting Wesen faces he'd encountered. He stared, unable to look away.

"Fine," Renard snarled. "You don't want me to be reasonable? Then I won't. Let's talk about it, then. What Adalind did. Do you know what she had in mind? What she expected to happen between us?"

Nick struggled to get his breathing under control. What was Renard talking about? "I don't care what she wanted," he ground out. Talking about the afternoon was the absolute last thing he wanted to do.

"No," Renard said, straightening. "You started this. Now we're going to finish it. Because you don't know, do you? You should consider it. You're a Grimm. I'm a Zauberbiest. That's a volatile combination at the best of times." He was still woged, and it gave his glare an added fierceness, even though one eye appeared to be dead and gone.

"Don't," Nick whispered harshly, but his fists were uncurling. His stomach churned with growing dread.

"Consider it," Renard repeated, low and threatening. "Overwhelming desire. All the lust-driven violence the two of us could bring to bear, aimed at each other." His voice turned distant then, clinical. "Someone would have won, eventually." 

Nick sucked in a horrified breath as understanding dawned.

Rape. Renard was talking about the most brutal, violent kind of rape, and either of them might have ended up the perpetrator. Or hell, why stop there? They might have taken turns, gaining the upper hand. Nick's gut clenched. His stomach heaved.

Adalind had planned for that. Had wanted that to happen. 

"And that's not even the worst part," Renard said, his one visible eye glittering, fey and wild. There were flushed spots on his face, and tension around his eye sockets, clear even through his woge.

Nick blinked. He'd never seen the captain this out of sorts, and damn, he'd had it all wrong, hadn't he? Renard wasn't unaffected. He'd just – pushed it all down, somehow. Made himself reasonable; made himself negotiate. Repressing, where Nick had channeled his own reaction into aggression.

He swallowed. "What's the worst part?"

"If it wasn't for you, that's exactly what would have happened. What I'd have done. With you, or anyone else. So I can't even regret that it was you."

Nick gasped. "What the hell?"

Renard looked away, and Nick couldn't help but notice the uncomfortable shift of his shoulders, his hips. No; the man was far from unaffected. 

"Have you considered," Renard said, his woge bleeding away, and he suddenly sounded very weary, "what this Zaubertrank would have done to someone else? What I did to you – that was because you allowed it. I would have fought and raped anyone who didn't. I know that much." He pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his forehead. "We were lucky, Nick. Indescribably lucky." And it was clearly tearing him apart.

Nick stared at him, shuddering inwardly. If the Zaubertrank's effects on him had brought other urges to the fore – if his own violent tendencies had been stirred; if, under the influence, the two of them hadn't turned out to match so well –

His throat constricted, and his hands were suddenly shaking. He stuffed them into his pockets, then drew them out again, restless. He'd been violated. They'd both been violated. Horribly enough. But the alternate version Renard was outlining – that was even more horrifying. At least, Nick thought with a dreadful sort of relief, _he_ didn't have to live with the knowledge of what he'd have done, if not for his luck in who was with him. _He_ hadn't almost –

"Fuck," Nick said, succinctly.

Renard was startled into a humorless laugh. "Yes," he said, shaking his head, "yes, that pretty much sums it up."

Nick hesitated. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know." Uncharacteristic honesty. "It wasn't the first time I've been under magical influence," Renard added blandly, after a too-long pause.

This time, Nick couldn't miss the careful deliberation behind the words. He shuddered. "I doubt that makes it better."

Renard shrugged, a dismissal clearly more intended than actually felt. "It's done. I'll deal with it."

Nick forced himself to meet those green eyes. "Is that what you do?" he demanded. "Just deal? Move on, like it's nothing?" 

"I don't exactly have a choice." A shrewd look. "Nor do you, Nick. You know that."

"Is this normal for you?" He'd meant it as an accusation; it came out almost plaintive. 

A shrug. "It is what it is." 

"You're sounding callous again." Nick thought he was beginning to understand just what stood behind that horrifying calm. It turned his stomach, but it didn't infuriate him, not now.

One of Renard's eyebrows went up. "What would you have me say?"

Nick shook his head, tiredly. "Nothing. Just – you might want to consider that not everyone lives in a world where that kind of thing just happens."

"Not everyone, no." Renard's eyes were hard now. "But you and I do."

And he was right, damn him again.

"So what the hell do we do? Just sweep it all under the rug?" Easier said than done, anyway. Renard might be able to do it; Nick wasn't so sure about himself.

"We deal with this as best we can," Renard said firmly. "And we _don't_ let Adalind win."

Unspoken: _Because that's the one thing we do have a choice about._

"Right." Nick looked up at Renard, examining his face, and Renard's eyes met him in perfect, grim understanding.

Nick had known Renard was just as much a victim of the Zaubertrank as he was; of course he'd known. But he'd had to keep reminding himself that Renard hadn't wanted it, any more than Nick had. He hadn't realized – hadn't understood – that Renard was struggling with the aftermath just as much.

To be fair, Renard had hidden it pretty well. Damn the man's poker face. Damn his ability to act as if nothing had happened.

Nick took a step back. "I guess we'll see how that works."

Renard nodded at him, a cautious smile on his face, and in mutual silent agreement they both turned towards their cars. 

Renard opened his driver's door. "I'll see you at the precinct," Renard said before he slipped inside, and the door closed after him.

Nick took a shuddering breath, got into his own car, and waited for Renard to drive away. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Exhaustion was growing in his bones.

Renard's parting words were an uncomfortable reminder: they'd have to work together, at the precinct and otherwise, if this was to work. And next time, he wouldn't have anger for a shield. 

It hadn't been enough, against the memories. It had been _something_ , but he couldn't depend on it again. Anger, distrust – neither was going to help him. And violence – well. That had thoroughly backfired, hadn't it? Nick felt a flush creep into his face. What other refuge was there? There was none.

Whatever Renard's agenda was, and he had to have one, Nick didn't think he'd even lied about anything today. Nick might still have no idea how much he could trust Renard, but all those oh-so-reasonable explanations, irritating though they were, rang entirely true. Even – or especially – in light of what Nick now knew.

Believing Renard was easy. And that meant he couldn't be quite as angry as he wanted to.

Besides, Renard _had_ given that key back. He'd woken Juliette. He'd come here, had answered Nick's questions, hadn't let Nick's decidedly hostile attitude provoke him. 

They could easily have been enemies. But Renard – damn the man – was right: they weren't now.

What was he to do? Renard's voice echoed in his mind: _Don't let Adalind win._

Adalind. She'd done this to him, to them both. She'd wanted worse to happen. She'd stolen Juliette's memories, had put her into a coma. It was all on her, everything that had gone wrong lately, everything Nick had lost.

Renard – all right. Whatever Renard had done, _he_ hadn't taken anything from Nick. Aunt Marie hadn't been murdered; she'd succumbed to her cancer in the end. Hank was still alive. And Juliette had woken up, thanks to him. He'd even given back the key. Renard might not be the good man Nick had thought him, but it was Adalind who'd ruined Nick's life. It was all Adalind. 

"Hexenbiest," he snarled. 

But that wasn't it. Taking away her Hexenbiest powers hadn't made her one bit less dangerous. All of the worst things she'd done, she'd done after that. Human as they came.

 _Damn_ Adalind. He wanted to punch her, to strangle her with his bare hands. To end this once and for all, the only way he knew how. 

He was going to find her, and kill her, and perhaps then it would be over. For him and Renard both.


	3. Chapter 2

  
A key turned, loud in the silence, and the front door clicked open. Nick tensed, then rolled over on the sofa. He still slept there, since he hadn't managed to bring himself to clear out the spare room and make it habitable. That would have made it feel permanent, like giving up on Juliette.

Footsteps entered, then paused. Nick buried his face in the blankets. Juliette had been out with friends, and she was coming home very late. She wouldn't doubt it if he pretended to be asleep. After a moment, without turning on the light, Juliette tip-toed up the stairs. Nick let out an unsteady breath. Bullet dodged. 

He couldn't lose her. But he couldn't face her either, not right now. Not with the past afternoon and evening bouncing around in his mind, not with his body and mind out of control, sensations and memories rushing through him at every slight reminder.

Eventually, thoughts still running in circles, he fell into a restless sleep.

  


* * *

  


_Two pairs of headlamps, bright in the darkness of the woods. Renard stands in the light, tall and imposing, stark and real. Green eyes rake over Nick from head to toe, attention with intent, and Nick fights against the feverish sensation of a flush rising in his cheeks._

_Nick swallows, but can't look away. Something has its hooks in him, pulling at him. He knows he should retreat, should flee, or fight. He can't. Renard comes closer, and all Nick can manage is to stand still._

_Close enough to touch, now. Nick's lips part for a shuddering breath. Everything else falls away into darkness. There is only the two of them, here in the headlights' intersecting beams._

_Renard leans forward, head bowed towards Nick. "You're a Grimm," he murmurs, his voice pitched low, an almost physical vibration against Nick's skin. "You can take a lot of punishment."_

_The words sear through Nick, a jolt of adrenaline and heat. He swallows down a gasp, tries to mask it with a scowl. His "Yes" is a whisper, torn from his throat. It's a memory, a truth. He shouldn't admit it, but Renard knows._

_"Yes," Renard echoes, a breath that shivers across the air between them and settles over Nick like a judgment spoken, a sentence proclaimed. He lifts a hand towards Nick's face, but stops just shy of touching. "And you like it when it hurts."_

_It goes straight to Nick's cock this time, suddenly making it strain against his jeans. Straight to his balls, pulling them tight. Nick sucks in a breath, hips shifting, swaying towards Renard. He resists the urge to fall, to touch, and clenches his teeth against the sound trying to well up from his throat. But he doesn't protest. Renard knows, and Nick can't force out a lie._

_"But I wasn't in control, earlier," Renard continues, leaning down further. Nick lifts his face towards him without meaning to. "Let me check you. Let me make sure I did you no damage."_

_He should back away from that voice, those eyes, that presence. He should want to. Nick knows he should. "You didn't," he says instead, quietly. It's not a denial. It's only stalling. Drawing out the moment, the anticipation._

_There's a promise singing in his blood. The sweetness of release, in something other than anger. Letting go, without destruction. Not needing to hold himself in check._

_Renard's eyes are heavy on him. "No?" he breathes, fingers brushing along the bruises on Nick's chin, his neck. The ones Renard's mouth made, sharp bites and just-as-sharp sucking, marking Nick for his own. Then he presses down sharply, fingers spread, a finger for each bruise – and Nick moans, swaying forward, stumbling towards the promise shuddering through him._

_Renard does nothing, simply stands there smiling. Watching. Waiting._

_Nick teeters on the edge of retreat for another drawn-out moment. He shouldn't. He can't. He needs –_

_"Go on," Nick whispers, surrender spoken like a challenge._

_A sharp, dark smile flickers over Renard's face. His hands close over Nick's shoulders. A forceful push spins Nick around. A harsh palm between the shoulder blades: he tumbles forward, away from Renard; he falls._

_Nick catches himself with his palms on the hood of Renard's car, the jolt of it going up his arms and into his shoulders, intense and_ there _like pain, like arousal. Under his hands, the metal is hot. He's bent over, exposed –_

_Broad hands settle on Nick's hips. Their warmth seeps into him, and he could almost flow into it, could lose himself in that grip._

_"Brace yourself," Renard orders, a calm command, like a million orders spoken at the precinct, a man expecting to be obeyed._

_Nick's face flushes red with shame, with need, with surrender as he grits his teeth, keeps himself in place. Heat is pooling, drawing his awareness to his palms, his cheeks, his cock, his ass._

_Renard's fingers play at the waistband of his jeans for a moment; then he reaches around to unbutton, to unzip. He pushes jeans and underwear down in a single move, and cold air hits Nick's flushed skin like a slap across his buttocks._

_Hands cup his cheeks, and without meaning to, Nick pushes back, pressing himself into Renard's palms. His ass feels raw under that touch, burning with the remembered sting of Renard's hand coming down, hard and relentless. It left no mark, but it's seared into him nonetheless._

_"Hold still." Renard hooks his thumbs between Nick's cheeks, pulls them apart. A low noise escapes from Nick's throat._

_For a long moment nothing happens. Nick is locked in place between Renard's hands on his ass and his own palms on the hood of the car. Renard's touch is a magnet holding him like this, head hanging low, bare ass in the air, and Nick can do nothing, only hold still, while Renard – what, studies him?_

_He can't move. He wouldn't if he could. Any movement would be an admission of something he can't admit, not to Renard, not to anyone._

_A large palm slides between Nick's thighs, pulls them apart as far as they go with his jeans down around his ankles, and a moment later a finger is pressed against his opening._

_"Did you bleed?" Renard's low voice is distant, clinical._

_"No," Nick snarls, his only defense. Almost, almost –_

_"Good." Nick hears a smile in Renard's voice, and something in him trembles at its promise._

_Then a single finger probes him, breaching the tight ring of muscle, and Nick hisses against the burn even as his hips buck up against it, seeking more. Admitting something, after all. Confessing need, and want._

_Renard's finger slides deeper, and it stings – stings badly at first, but damn it all, he_ needs _it. Needs the touch, needs the pain, needs to let it happen._

 __You like it when it hurts. _God, yeah, he does. There's no potion coursing through his veins now, and still he does._

_Time splinters. Space falls apart. There's only this. Hot metal under his palms, a hand on his hip, fingers – two now – pushing deep inside, moving, stretching. Emptiness, for a moment – he whimpers, shame lost to desperation – then the fingers are back, cool and slick, sliding easily inside. Oh god, Renard has lube. Something about the planning, about the care of it makes Nick's chest constrict._

_Renard pulls out again, wipes his hand on Nick's jeans. Then both his hands are on Nick's hips, firmly this time, holding him steady as Renard's cock nudges against his opening. Nick is panting harshly, eyes clenched shut. His own cock hangs heavy between his legs, untouched. He can't be doing this. He can't want it. But he needs._

_He could still kick Renard off him, make it all stop. Slam his fist into Renard's face again until he hits back. It would be easier, far easier than staying here, waiting. Craving._

_The world seems to pause, the moment stretching out._

_"_ Please _" finally tears itself from Nick's throat instead, and there's a sound like a snarl from behind him, Renard's grip suddenly harsh and bruising. Nick just knows Renard has woged, in the same moment that Renard thrusts forward – hard, fast, deep. Nick's elbows collapse with the force of it, with the jolt of pain and the surge of pleasure, and he slams face down onto the hood of the car. Renard's hands keep his hips in the air, and he doesn't pause for a second as he fills Nick up. It's too fast, too raw, too much. Nick needs more._

_Renard gives it to him. Renard takes him harshly, violently, pounding into him with relentless force, the strength of a Zauberbiest, his hips slapping against Nick's ass with every thrust. Even with the lube it's rough, but Nick takes it, takes it all, lets it fill his senses, fill his mind._

_More, deeper, harder, until there's nothing left inside Nick but this, until_ yes _and_ please _are the only words he remembers._

 _Falling. Drifting. Taken._ Free. __

_Then Renard's hand closes around the back of Nick's neck, shaking him, and a wordless sound wrenches itself from Nick's throat as he loses his last grip on himself and his cock spills itself._

  


* * *

  


Nick woke up with a gasp. He sat up straight with the adrenaline jolt of coming out of a nightmare, staring wide-eyed into the dim living room. It was only just getting light outside. Nick's heart was hammering. His skin felt clammy and abraded, and there was hot stickiness in his boxers.

Oh god, no.

For a moment it still hovered over him, the clarity that came with letting himself go – untainted, without violence. Without compromise, without damage, without defeat. The next instant, it had already slipped beyond his grasp, and dread knotted in his belly instead.

It wasn't real, couldn't be. A false promise, manufactured by violation, and his succumbing to it nothing but a shameful failure to resist. The mess in his boxers was a condemnation.

_What I did to you – that was because you allowed it._

No. No, it was the potion, messing with his mind. He didn't want –

Footsteps sounded on the floor above, and Nick froze, looking up towards the ceiling. Juliette was awake. With almost panicked urgency he threw off his blankets, got off the sofa, and fled towards the shower.

  


* * *

  


A cold shower, quick and perfunctory. It served to clean him up, but didn't do much to dislodge the remnants of Nick's dream. Nightmare. And when he staggered out of the icy water to reach for a towel, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. A line of bruises stood vivid along his shoulder, his neck, his chin. Their purple was fading toward yellow at the edges already, thanks to a Grimm's quick healing, but there was no missing them, no hiding. He stared.

 _Renard's mouth on him, sucking. Renard's fingers pressing against the bruises._ Nick gritted his teeth, trying to force the memories away. Why wouldn't it stop?

 _Should have gone with hot water,_ he thought wildly. The mirror would have fogged up, then.

He toweled himself off roughly, a distraction from the adrenaline-rawness of his skin. His balls and his cock felt like they'd been scraped out with a spoon. He had to get a grip on himself. 

_Just a nightmare. Just memories. Just the remnants of a Zaubertrank._

Nick got dressed quickly, wrapping himself in clothes like amour. Jeans and, again, a turtleneck. It still left one of the bruises clearly visible on his chin. 

A door shut audibly, elsewhere in the house; a floorboard creaked. Juliette was coming out of her bedroom. Nick jerked his eyes away from the mirror.

God. Juliette would see. 

Nick's throat constricted, and his chest felt suddenly too tight. What could he say to her? What excuse could he give?

Everything was so tentative between them now. He was lucky that she was willing to give him a chance at all, this stranger she couldn't remember, who had inserted himself into her life without her say-so. But she was trying – she'd been trying, hadn't she? Doing her best to find a way to bridge the gap between them.

She'd come with him to Renard's award ceremony; they'd had dinner; there had even been an aborted kiss. They'd been getting closer, hadn't they? And then she'd flinched away. 

Not that he could blame her. He couldn't imagine how hard it must be, living in a world that didn't fit her memories. But Nick had no idea where they stood, any more. 

Damn, he didn't _want_ to be making up excuses. He wanted her back, not to put more secrets and lies between them, and yet they were building up like a barrier, growing every day. They still stood a chance. He had to believe that. But if this new horror cost him his second chance – if Adalind's machinations had taken that from him, too –

A flood of anger swept over him, and Nick let out a shuddering breath. Yes: a clear target. Pure, unadulterated rage. This, he knew. This, he could handle.

Adalind would pay for this. She would.

  


* * *

  


Nick stopped as he came into the living room, arrested by the sight of Juliette's red hair. She was at the dining table with a mug of coffee, looking through something on her phone. Her handbag sat on the table next to her. It was an achingly normal sight, and it felt immeasurably distant, like something from a different life, something he could only strain for but never reach.

He could imagine her turning around and smiling as she saw him on the stairs, and he would go up to her and kiss her cheek ...

At the table, Juliette heard his steps and turned to look in his direction. She ducked her head briefly, then visibly straightened. Her "Good morning" was artificial, a polite friendliness clearly unfelt. She wasn't smiling. 

"Morning, Juliette," Nick managed. It sounded stilted even to his own ears. Juliette nodded jerkily in return, then turned resolutely back towards her phone. 

She didn't want him there. She didn't even remember him. And if he came any closer she would instantly see that bruise on his chin. He couldn't explain it. Couldn't explain anything.

Like a coward, Nick diverted to the kitchen instead.

He busied himself with the coffee for far longer than he needed to, trying to make up his mind. Call _Sorry, gotta dash!_ , and leave the house? Go into the living room and ignore her entirely? Yeah, sure. That would send a message, all right. 

Juliette wasn't sure about any of this. If he gave her the impression that he was pulling back, that he was having second thoughts, would she take the excuse and pull back in turn? They'd connected; he'd been sure they had. Juliette still _liked_ him, even just getting to know him now. But with all the strain on her, would it be a relief not to have to try so hard?

They could both tell themselves they'd try again later, and might even mean it. 

No. _No._ He wasn't going to give up, not on getting her back, and not on helping her find her memories again. They were Juliette's; she had a right to them. They couldn't just let Adalind win.

Nick forced himself to leave the kitchen.

"Hi, Juliette," he said from the doorway, attempting a smile as he carried his mug of coffee towards the table. Juliette had put down her phone and was now scribbling on a memo pad.

She flinched at his voice, and abruptly shoved the memo pad under her bag. Damn. He was intruding on her privacy, wasn't he? To her, anyway. To her, he didn't even belong here. Nick swallowed against the lump forming in his throat.

"Hi," Juliette said finally, meeting Nick's eyes with clear reluctance.

Despite the less than gracious welcome, Nick joined her at the table, setting down his mug. He had to.

He had to, or he'd be giving up on her. And he couldn't do that.

Juliette's eyes widened fractionally as she took him in, looking at him properly for the first time. "What happened to you?"

He'd known it was coming. He still stiffened. "Nothing."

Juliette made a face, nose scrunched up in humorous doubt – the kind of expression that always made Nick want to kiss her. His throat tightened even further. 

"What's that on your chin, then?" 

Nick managed a shrug. "Work. Got into a fight." Something in his chest ached at the lie, but what else could he do? 

Juliette's mouth quirked. "Really? It looks ..." She trailed off, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. Familiar teasing, and that she was willing to do that with him meant something, surely. They hadn't lost everything, had they?

And yet he had to keep lying. Did any of this mean anything, could it lead anywhere, if it was all based on false pretense? It all tasted like ashes in his mouth. For a moment he was tempted to simply blurt out the truth, to tell her everything, about Adalind and the cat, about Wesen and Grimms and Royals, even about Renard. Could truth be more bitter than this? 

Foolish, of course. Truth hadn't exactly worked, last time. No, he had to stick with this, insufficient though it was. It was better than nothing, after all.

"I know what it looks like," Nick finally said, giving her his best put-upon expression. Exactly what he would do if he were telling the truth, if that mark had indeed come from a fight. But there was bile in his throat. This wasn't right. "I've been teased enough."

Juliette's lip twitched. "You can tell me the truth, you know. You've got a secret girlfriend, don't you?"

Nick flinched. She'd meant it as banter, no doubt. "Don't," he ground out. It came out harsh – too harsh.

She lifted her hands to fend off his anger, eyes widening in shock. "I was just –"

"Sorry," Nick managed, grimacing. He'd been on the edge for too long. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

Juliette sat very still for a long moment, looking at him. Nick couldn't decide if her expression was more worry, or regret. Sadness, maybe.

"I shouldn't have said that, should I?" she finally said, softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "That's not something I'd tease my boyfriend about. Is it?"

Nick swallowed. "It might be," he said hoarsely. "If we were good. If things were solid, the way they –" He swallowed the rest of the sentence. _The way they used to be. The way they should be._

The way things weren't.

"I can't know that, Nick." Juliette leaned back, crossed her arms over her chest, defensively. God, this was as hard for her as it was for him. Harder – she didn't even know what was happening, what had been done to her.

"I know." Bleakly.

"You do, do you? Of course you do. You know everything!" An edge of hysteria crept into Juliette's voice. "And I know nothing, right? I don't know you, or what our relationship was like. You're a complete stranger! And you're here in my house, and you want to know when I come and go, and where I'm going, and who I'm spending my time with. And I have to just – just –"

She gulped a breath, eyes squeezing together. Nick's hand itched to reach out to her, to comfort her. "Juliette –" 

"I can't do this right now," she ground out, her chair scraping back loudly on the floor as she abruptly jumped to her feet. "I'm sorry, Nick, really, I am. But I need some space. I don't know who I am any more." She bit her lip, helpless and hurting. "I'm going out. Don't expect me until tonight." 

Snatching up her bag, Juliette fled from the table, and the house.

Nick stared after her in horror, confused and lost. How had this spun out of control so quickly? Could nothing go right for him any more?

Adalind. It was all Adalind's fault. Everything.

Nick shook his head to clear it, then turned back to the table to pick up his mug, just for something to do. Juliette's memo pad was still lying there, along with the biro she'd used, and now he saw that they were the ones they kept in the drawer by the desktop computer, along with the thumb drives, the spare batteries, and the rubber bands.

Nick sighed and, driven by the restlessness in his bones, the need for action without any clear course ahead, he picked up pad and biro and stood to put them back where they belonged. Half-way across the room, his eyes fell onto the paper, and he stopped dead in his tracks, sucking in a harsh breath.

The first line said, "Sean." 

The second line said, "Sean Sean Sean Sean Sean." And so on, across several lines, the same name repeated over and over again.

Always "Sean." 

It could only be one man. The prince who had kissed her awake. Sean Renard.

Fury seared through him, instant and pure. A clear thing to think, to feel. Renard and Juliette? Secrets again. More lies, after everything he'd just found out about Renard. What was going on here? What more had he kept from Nick?

Damn Renard. He'd deceived Nick for over a year. He'd known everything, from the start. How much had he manipulated Nick, once Nick had become a Grimm? Staying in the shadows all this time, pulling strings in the dark.

Last night, Nick had thought they'd found some common ground. And now this. Juliette and Renard. How? Why? Did it matter? He wanted to rip them apart. Wanted to drag Renard away, slam his fist into the man's face –

No. Renard would hit back, and then – _No._ He couldn't. Not after what had happened the last time. But this was too much. This was about Juliette. This was one secret too far.

 _See how you negotiate your way out of this,_ Nick thought, viciously. 

Yes – he needed to talk to Renard. And soon. Today, since it was Sunday. Before he had to see the man at work. If he didn't press, he'd be letting Renard off the hook. He had no intention to. 

Nick swiped at his phone and, before he could think about it too hard, hit _call_.

"Nick." Despite the early hour, Renard picked up after only a few rings, his voice entirely bland, giving away no surprise at the unexpected call.

It still pierced through Nick's body, that voice. The calm of it, the control. The memories. Nick clenched every muscle, sitting very still, trying to keep it all in. "We need to meet." 

Renard didn't say, _Again?_ , didn't ask for a reason. He must have heard the tension in Nick's voice. "All right. Same place?"

_His hands braced on the hood of the car, Renard's thumbs parting his ass –_

For a moment, he couldn't breathe.

"No. Somewhere public, this time." That was only reasonable. Somewhere things couldn't get out of hand. Violence was out of the question, now. Verbal savagery only. But that would do.

"Some place where it won't get right back to Adalind, I presume."

"Obviously." He could suggest any number of places, but Renard knew Adalind better, must have some idea of what she'd know. "Got any idea?"

"Mm." Renard pondered for a moment. "Do you remember the restaurant that Texan tourist got killed in?"

"That tourist trap?" It was a sandwich/burger/steak place attached to a hotel near the airport. The Texan's death there had been one of Nick's cases just before Aunt Marie had come to Portland, before Nick's life had turned itself upside down. It seemed like something from another world. Though if Renard was mentioning it ... "Was he Wesen, too?" 

"Not to my knowledge."

Right. Nick cursed himself for letting suspicion misdirect him. Of course Renard wasn't suggesting something Wesen-related. That was the point, wasn't it? Some place Adalind wouldn't expect either of them. A tacky restaurant that catered mostly to tourists definitely fit the bill. "Fine. All right. Lunch, at twelve?"

"Twelve," Renard repeated, the agreement instant, and there seemed to be something dark shivering in his voice, just under the surface, hidden in plain sight. Had that undertone always been there – had Nick just never known to listen for it?

No. It must be Nick's imagination. After all, Renard didn't know Nick was coming to confront him. But it felt right, all the same.

Something in his stomach fluttered, and Nick hung up abruptly, without another word.

  


* * *

  


Fury, without any action to funnel it into, had only two directions it could go: it could fester, or it could fade. Nick had started doing the dishes in a burst of jittery impatience, a directionless need for something to busy himself with, and half-way through, along with the immediacy of his anger, the satisfaction and the relief of it also bled away.

Nick stood at the sink, the kitchen lit by early-morning light, the house around him empty, and his shoulders sagged. His head sank down, chin resting on his breastbone, and he let out a shuddering breath.

He'd grasped for the simplicity of anger, an old, familiar refuge – and in his relief to escape from the complicated knot of contradictory feelings and thoughts he'd been caught in, he'd allowed himself to forget the inevitable let-down. 

Hadn't he learned this as a boy, raging at the world after his parents' death? Anger was only ever satisfying in the moment. It couldn't last, and in the end, would only add to his problems, rather than solve them. Nick had reason to be angry – had had it then, and had it now in spades – but getting swept away with it would get him neither answers nor satisfaction; it would only give him a pile of shards and fragments no easier to deal with than what he'd been trying to escape. And then it would dump him right back into what he'd been running from, too. It always did.

Sometimes it was worth it even so, just for the release. But he shouldn't have let it get the better of him. Aunt Marie had taught him better than that.

And besides, Renard and he had an enemy in common. If not before, then certainly now. With Adalind still about, allowing himself to be distracted from that could be fatal. Who knew what she might do next?

Nick grimaced and wiped his hands on a dishrag, turning away from the sink. Still, something was up with Juliette and Renard. What had Renard kept from him? 

The crux of it was, Nick still didn't think Renard had lied about anything, the night before. For all that it was difficult to trust him, Renard's explanations made too much sense. They fit – and moreover, fit with Renard's awful outburst at the end, which couldn't have been anything but genuine: _I can't even regret that it was you._

Nick hadn't let himself think about that. His mind wanted to flinch from it even now. He forced himself to face the horrifying picture Renard had painted.

_What I did to you – that was because you allowed it._

If that was true, why? Why had he allowed it? Nick swallowed harshly, his mouth tasting like ashes. He didn't want – couldn't have wanted –

 _Magic can make you want anything, but it can't make you like it._

No, he hadn't liked –

Nick rubbed his hands over his forearms, trying to smooth down the gooseflesh. That sentence – that claim. It all came down to that. It all came down to this: Had Renard lied to him? Or had he told the truth?

No. The Zaubertrank had done it. Adalind had. Nick had had no choice. None of it had been him. Had it?

No. He couldn't have been somehow ... complicit ... in it all. Couldn't have wanted what was forced on him. Nick's stomach clenched, and he tasted bile in his throat. 

It couldn't be. And he was hardly going to take Renard's word for it, was he? Even if he doubted nothing else the man had said – it just couldn't be that clear-cut, that simple. That horrifying.

And at any rate, Nick had promised to double-check. Had threatened to, in fact. 

So many of his questions were unanswerable, except with time: whether Renard was playing him; what Renard's ultimate goals were. How much of the captain he'd thought he'd known was even real. Who the hell the man was, underneath. But this one – the one about the Zaubertrank, about the limits of magic – this one could be answered. 

Monroe would know. Nick shuddered, dismissed the thought instantly. He couldn't look Monroe in the face and ask that question. He couldn't. But Rosalee – Rosalee would know even better. She was an apothecary, after all. And while she was a friend, she was not as close a one as Monroe. Besides, since she wasn't in Portland right now – helping taking care of her aunt, who'd had a stroke – he wouldn't even have to look her in the face.

Nick pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Rosalee's name. Should he? Could he? He put the phone down again. It was too early in the day to call.

Nick turned back toward the sink and reached for the mugs he'd been washing. Do something. Finish something. Better than sitting around and waiting.

A mug slipped from his grasp, knocked against the faucet as it splashed back into the sink, and the rim cracked. Nick let out a slow breath and reached into the water to pull it out and check the damage. 

"Ow! Damn!" He pulled his hand away and stared at his index finger. A fragment had come off under his touch, and blood was welling from a shallow cut.

_Fuck._

  


* * *

  


An hour later, he was sitting on the couch, the cut on his finger long closed up, his phone in his hand again. Now? Or wait a little longer? Damn it, he was stalling. He knew he was.

Nick didn't know Rosalee as well as he did Monroe, but she was shrewd. She'd probably realize something had happened. Even if he told her as little as possible, even if he admitted to nothing, she'd know, and Nick wasn't ready for anyone to know anything. He wished _he_ didn't know. Maybe he should just shove it all down where it belonged and move forward. Damn, if he could just erase the memory –

Yeah, right. Because that had helped Juliette so much.

Still: whatever Rosalee told him, whatever truths she had for him, he would then have to face them. Would know for certain, for better or worse, bitter or sweet as it might be. 

Nick tried to tamp down the wild hope that Rosalee would have _good_ news for him, for a change. What if she didn't? Nick grimaced down at the phone, at Rosalee's name. Did he really need to know? Did it even matter? It was over. 

Except that it wasn't. Could the truth be worse than this? This confusion, this fear, this self-doubt.

And after all, he'd told Renard he would double-check. If he didn't – if there was something to discover there, and he didn't – then Renard would know. No, he had no choice. Really no choice at all. His thumb came down on the _call_ button, and he clenched his eyes tight, shutting out the world.

"Hey, Rosalee," he said when she picked up, then stalled. Where to even start? _Tell me I don't want this. Tell me it's not my fault._ God. He should have planned ahead, thought of what to say.

"Nick," Rosalee said, sounding a little wary but, thank god, fully awake. At least he hadn't rousted her out of bed. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, I –" Belatedly it occurred to Nick that he hadn't exactly called Rosalee out of the blue before. What must she be thinking? Bad news, no doubt. Not that that wasn't true. "Monroe's fine, nothing to worry about," he said quickly, then ran out of words again. His fingers clenched around the phone, and he pressed it closer to his ear. Putting it on speaker would have been more comfortable, but having the words ring out loud in the room – no. It was bad enough as it was.

"Okay," Rosalee said after a moment, and when he didn't respond to the prompt, she added, "Nick? Are _you_ okay?"

"I'm fine." Forcefully, hoping she wouldn't catch the strain in his voice. "I just –" Nick swallowed, convulsively, knowing he was only convincing her further that he _wasn't_ fine. "Can I ask you a question? As an apothecary, I mean."

"Of course." Puzzled, now. 

"Adalind's back in town." He hadn't known he was going to say that until it came out of his mouth. But his instincts hadn't deserted him; he'd come up with the right thing to say when he'd needed it, after all. He could take it from there.

"Monroe told me," she said calmly. "What has she done now?"

Nick had warned Monroe and Hank immediately when he'd heard, but hadn't bothered with calling Rosalee, who wasn't in town. Clearly the news hadn't taken long to get to her anyway. Monroe and she must be talking quite a bit. Looked like things were going somewhere for his friends. Nick smiled fondly for a moment, then uncomfortably wondered just how much she would be telling Monroe about Nick's call.

Nick stood up, started pacing. "I remembered what she did to Hank last time," he began, ignoring Rosalee's question altogether. "She used some Zaubertrank on him to get him into her bed, remember?" At her confirmation, he blurted out, "Is there actually such a thing as a love potion?" And winced immediately afterward, glad she couldn't see him. He hadn't meant to say that. It wasn't love he was concerned with, but something far more physical. That should have been easier to ask about, shouldn't it?

"Love potion?" Rosalee's voice was suddenly sharp. "Nick, what's going on? Please tell me this has nothing to do with Juliette."

"Huh? No. No!" Nick flinched, physically recoiling from the insinuation. "What do you think I am? _Hell_ no, Rosalee, for god's sake."

"Sorry," she said, sounding relieved. What must she be thinking of him? "Sorry, it's just – what brought this up? You're not making much sense."

Not much choice about that, unless he wanted to tell her everything. Which, no. Definitely no. "I just need to know what a potion can make someone do." 

Rosalee seemed to consider for a moment, and Nick's tension grew with every second he waited for her to speak. Dread was building up in his gut, vibrating under his skin.

"All right," she said eventually. "All right, Nick. I assume we're talking in the context of, what, sex? Attraction?" When Nick said nothing, she continued, "First of all, there's no such thing as a love potion. The closest you can get is a sort of obsessed, eroticized fascination. There are any number of potions that can force some degree of physical attraction, such as what Adalind used on Hank. Some of the heavier magic can tap into subconscious desires, remove inhibitions, that sort of thing." Nick drew his breath in sharply through his teeth, and Rosalee must have heard, because she asked again, "Is that what you're looking for, Nick?"

No. It wasn't. It couldn't be.

Nick had stopped dead, standing still in the middle of the living room. "Go on," he forced out. His face felt hot, flushed with horror, with shame.

Rosalee sighed. "All right. If that's how you want it. You're the Grimm, after all."

"Now hang on a minute –"

"I'm sorry," she said immediately. "You're a good guy, Nick. I'm trying to help, all right?"

"I know you are," Nick admitted, finally giving in and sitting back down. He rubbed a hand over his face and forced himself to take a slow, steadying breath. "Just – please?"

"Right," Rosalee said briskly. "Where were we? What magic can do. If you know how – and Hexenbiests generally do – you can put people into a mindless erotic haze, which makes them suggestible. You can force them to crave just about anyone, or anything, with single-minded, obsessive compulsion. All those myths and fairy tales about people falling in love with unlikely objects? Make it lust instead, and it's all possible. All true." She paused for a moment in thought.

Could that be it? No, that didn't ring true at all. It wasn't obsession, hadn't been. Obsession looked more like – like –

For a moment, a memo pad flashed through Nick's memory, the repetition of a name, a compulsive scribble, and his eyes widened. 

"A Zaubertrank can make someone go violently out of control," Rosalee continued, derailing his thoughts. "It can make them admit to their most secret desires, the things they hide even from themselves."

 _I know you don't want to want this,_ Renard had said. 

It settled in Nick's gut like a vast and tight knot, rose into his throat to suffocate him. At least, he thought almost hysterically, it was hiding his reaction, his throat too tight even for a hiss, or a gasp. After a moment he managed to speak again. "And what can't it do?"

"Create love," Rosalee replied promptly, "or any kind of genuine feeling for the object of their artificial desire. Satisfy the desire it creates, even if the victim gets what they're craving. That's the thing about that kind of magic – it can make you want, but because the feeling's not real, getting what you want will do nothing to sate the craving. You just want, and want, and want."

It welled up from memory then, more frightening than want or need: _Renard's arms around him, after. Renard's mouth wet on his shoulder. Being held, relaxed and warm and content, a drowsy arousal without urgency –_

Rosalee was still speaking. "That's what makes these potions so dangerous – the craving can't be satisfied, so it can't end. It only gets worse."

Not like what had happened to him. The fingers of Nick's right hand had closed so tightly around his phone, he made an effort to relax them before he damaged it. His left fist was squashing a sofa cushion. "So you're saying," he forced out slowly, "that never mind what it makes you want, you still won't like it?"

That wasn't exactly what Rosalee had said, and her brief pause made it clear she'd noticed his jump in logic.

"If it's not something you'd like otherwise," she said finally, carefully. "Those cookies didn't make Hank like Adalind, did they? And if she could have done that, you know she would have."

And there it was again. 

"Okay," Nick said quietly. The skin on his face felt stretched tight and thin, and he was no longer sure if he was red as a beet or if all the blood had drained away. "Okay." He gulped a deep breath. Damn, he _hadn't_ wanted – he couldn't have liked –

Rosalee was silent for another long moment. "If you really don't want to tell me, I won't ask," she said, too gently. "But you should talk to Monroe. He can examine you for aftereffects, at least, just to be sure."

Nick flinched. Hell no. "Don't tell him," he ground out. She'd guessed too much. But then, he'd known she would. "Promise me you won't tell."

"Nick," she said firmly, "I wouldn't. As an apothecary, or as a friend. But you really should. It could help."

Nick ducked his head. "Thanks, Rosalee," he said, carefully promising nothing. "I really appreciate your help."

He hung up, tossed the phone onto the couch table and put his face into his hands, drawing a deep, shuddering breath. God. _God._ Why couldn't she have told him magic could make anything feel good? No matter how little you wanted it. But instead –

It couldn't be true. But it was.

And the contented, lazy drifting at the end – no, it hadn't stopped with him still desperately craving. It had ended satisfied. Relaxed.

It was true, wasn't it? Renard had told the truth. It had felt good – too good, so good that the pleasure and the release of it kept flaring back up from his memory, inescapable – and if that wasn't the magic, then it had to be Nick himself. 

He'd liked it. Adalind had forced them onto each other, and Nick had _liked_ it. 

His stomach churned. 

Those constant, intrusive memories. But not just memories: dreams – nightmares – flashbacks. Renard's fist in his face, and it had only felt good –

All of that. His sudden, glaring awareness of Renard's body. The heat sizzling between them. The knowledge he couldn't admit, yet couldn't force from his mind, of just how good it had been to let Renard –

To let him –

 _Have. Take. Use. Possess._ Except better than that. 

To let Renard do whatever he wanted. To let himself take it – _be_ taken, be tossed around and hit and fucked and hurt. Except the pain wasn't the point; the sex wasn't even the point. It was letting himself let go, utterly, putting himself into Renard's hands and letting everything fall away, letting himself be swallowed by what Renard was doing to him, what he was giving him.

_Hands roughly moving him into place. A leather belt around his wrists. Renard's cock in his mouth, in his throat. Seeing it coming – a slap, or a punch, or a kiss – and not twisting away. Welcoming it, whatever it was. Letting himself fall._

He'd enjoyed it, every moment of it, every part – had wanted it when it was coming, had craved and anticipated, and it had filled him up, fulfilled him, made him come apart with the pleasure of it.

Horribly, devastatingly, Nick's hips surged forward, straining towards something he couldn't have.

Sudden realization, like a punch to the gut: yes, he'd liked it – and he wanted more. Impossible, for too many reasons to count, but god, he wanted.

For what felt an eternity, Nick simply breathed, one ragged breath after the other, panic skittering around the edge of his consciousness, dread and arousal warring for dominion over his skin.

God, he wanted. Why did he have to want this? How could he, when it had been forced onto them? How could he, when he loved Juliette desperately, when he still hoped every day that this would be the day when they'd find each other again? How could he, when he wasn't even sure he could trust Renard?

Oh hell. _Renard._ In just a few hours, he was meeting Renard for lunch. Had insisted on it, in fact. No retracting that now.

He needed to pull himself together, or it would be a disaster. If Nick wasn't careful, if he wasn't in control, the captain would be able to read every last shameful thought on his face.

Truth, Nick thought bitterly, wasn't better than confusion at all. There was no undoing this, no taking back this devastating awareness. He would have to go to that restaurant, would have to sit with Renard at a table, would have to see him and talk to him and give nothing away, all the while knowing – all the while _wanting_ –

Oh god. How was he going to face Renard?


	4. Chapter 3

  
Nick stopped with his hand on the restaurant door, half glad no one was behind him, half wishing someone were. He should have been bracing for a confrontation, but the dread that strung his body tight as a crossbow had little to do with whatever Renard might say, or do.

Just seeing the man was going to be difficult. Looking Renard in the face, knowing ...

Knowing himself. Knowing that he wanted –

 _Answers,_ Nick reminded himself. _Juliette and Renard._ Something was very wrong with Juliette, and Renard had kept it from him. He could face the man, if only he could manage to focus on that.

The morning's moment of blind fury, unchecked, had put him into a trap: he'd demanded a meeting, and there was no backing out of it now. But the immediate anger was lost and gone, and with it the welcome insulation from his own state of mind. It had only lasted a moment, the false temptation of release, something simple to think and feel ...

_Joke's on you, Nick. It's always false._

It couldn't happen again. Not in anger, not in anything else. The promise was always sweet, and the let-down all the more bitter. Only in fantasies did it not end like this, a wreck worse than what he'd started with.

His stomach churning, Nick cut the thought off and pushed through the door, moving forward. There was nowhere else to go.

The restaurant was busy enough, but not crowded – Nick could take it all in with a glance. It looked just as it had two years ago, the same cartoon burgers and flowers painted on the walls, the same tables with the same plastic flowers dwarfed by the same condiments, the waiters wearing the same uniforms. Of course, tourists like the ones this place mainly catered to weren't exactly repeat customers, and unlikely to notice.

There were two families, a group of young men with matching baseball caps, and three people on their own – two men and a woman. None of them was wearing a suit. 

Damn, Renard was going to stand out here. As if he wasn't difficult enough to look away from – as if he didn't already draw Nick's attention like a magnet, willing or unwilling.

_Green eyes, fixed on him. Renard's body, close enough to touch. Renard's head bending towards him, and the rest of the world falling away –_

Nick stood by the restaurant's double door, feeling unreal. The bright, overly cheery décor, the background chatter – it all seemed like something out of another world, one he could no longer fit himself into. His arms felt covered in gooseflesh, but when he pushed the sleeves of his turtleneck up to his elbows, the hairs stood up no more than usual. All the wrongness was inside.

Blood rushed in his ears. It was an effort just to focus his eyes, and he could barely make himself take in his surroundings, never mind all the details he usually noticed without effort.

Renard wasn't there yet. He could still pull himself together. He could still –

No. No, damn it, he couldn't. He could _not_.

The greeter was approaching him, but Nick ignored her, turned brusquely away, pushed back out into the parking lot. He needed to clear his head.

  


* * *

  


The sky was grey and overcast, threatening rain. Nick stood next to his car, a forearm against the roof, head bowed. He grasped for calm, for steadiness, but it slipped through his fingers. He forced another ragged breath, feeling trapped underwater, desperately drawing too little air through too thin a straw.

"Nick," said a voice, close to him. _Renard._

Nick whirled around. No, he couldn't –

The sight stopped him dead in his tracks. Renard was wearing jeans and a t-shirt tucked into his waistband. Bare arms and a tight fit showed his impressive build; he seemed more like an athlete than a man who spent most of his days behind a desk. Nick's mouth went dry.

Renard wasn't stronger than he was, but he looked it, tall and imposing, and god, Nick wanted –

He forced himself back to the present. Where had Renard come from, all of a sudden? And damn if the 'Keep Portland Weird' t-shirt didn't made him look like a tourist. 

_Oh._ Nick's mind flashed back to his brief scan of the restaurant. There'd been a man in jeans and a t-shirt slouching at a corner table, half-hidden behind the menu he was studying. 

He should have expected this, shouldn't he? Of course Renard wouldn't have showed up here in one of his usual suits. Renard was a police officer; he was also a Royal and a Zauberbiest living among humans. Of course he knew how to go unnoticed. Of course he knew how to play a part.

Renard's green eyes swept over him, cool and astute, taking his measure. "Is everything all right?" 

Nick tensed his muscles against a flinch. "You came after me?" he demanded, aggression without anger. Pure defensiveness. Not a chance in hell that Renard couldn't tell.

"You walked in and left again," Renard said, reasonably. "What did you think I'd do?" 

He stood there, unperturbed, his head at a slight angle as he studied Nick. A wave of heat rose under Nick's skin, and he swallowed. Being looked at shouldn't feel like this. Especially not being looked at by Renard.

"It didn't occur to you to leave me alone? That I don't want to see you?" _Be seen by you._

Renard rolled his eyes. "If you'd wanted to be left alone you wouldn't be standing here." 

He'd known Renard was coming, that was true. Nick could have walked away, driven away, could have done anything but stay right here in the parking lot. He could have made sure Renard wouldn't find him again until, inevitably, they ran into each other at the precinct. 

Instead he'd stayed, just like he'd stayed in place when Renard had thrown him onto the ground, when he'd lifted his hand for a slap, when his foot had come down on Nick's crotch –

Nick drew in a shuddering breath. Had he wanted to be found? To be pushed, forced into what he couldn't bring himself to face on his own accord? It didn't work that way, damn it, not in the real world. It wasn't freeing, here. It was just another trap. But he'd wanted –

 _No._ No, he couldn't be that – that –

He gritted his teeth. _Answers._ That was what he needed to focus on. Gathering his resolve, the remnants of his anger, Nick pulled Juliette's memo pad from his jeans pocket and flung it at Renard.

Renard caught it reflexively, looked down, and froze. "Is that why you called?" he said, his voice turning very bland. "Not what I expected."

"What did you expect? Never mind," Nick forestalled any attempt at an answer and continued, sharply. "More importantly, what the hell is going on?" 

Renard hesitated, and Nick wanted to punch the calculating expression off his face. Damn, punching never worked; he knew it didn't. Especially not now, not with Renard, not when he knew what it would get him.

Maybe _because_ he knew –

 _No._

"You kept something from me," Nick pressed. "Didn't you?" Even if violence wasn't an option, forcing a confrontation was still the best option he had for pushing everything else away. He leaned forward, glaring. "What did you do to Juliette?"

"What did _I_ do?" Renard's mouth turned down. For a moment, his eyes glittered with something Nick couldn't read. Then, somehow, he seemed to pull calm around him like a cloak. A familiar reasonable expression settled on his face – ready to negotiate. Damn the man. "I woke her up," he said, very precisely. 

Nick bared his teeth. "Yeah, right. You broke Adalind's curse and all. Sure you did." He stabbed a finger in the direction of the memo pad Renard was still holding. "That doesn't look like a broken curse to me."

"That's all I did," Renard said, seemingly unaffected by Nick's confrontational behavior. But if nothing else, the evening before had taught Nick just how little that meant. "Unfortunately, Adalind did more. So no, it isn't."

"What the hell are you talking about?" He had to keep pushing. He couldn't back down. If he did, he'd fall apart.

"I'm sorry, Nick." Renard lifted his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "I didn't see it until it was too late. But you must know by now that she expected the sleeping curse to be broken."

"What?" Nick's brain took a moment to catch on. "Right, her memory ..." Of course stealing Juliette's memory only made sense if Adalind had assumed she'd wake up. 

"Yes." Renard ran a hand through his hair, then pinched the bridge of his nose, looking pained. "And she left a trap for whoever woke her."

"You." No one else in Portland could have.

"Me," Renard confirmed. 

"What trap?" Nick held himself stiff against the palpable energy hovering between them, pulling them towards each other and pushing them apart. He could feel it in his skin, the danger and the force of it, and damn, some part of him _liked_ getting pushed like that.

Even now, even in the middle of this. What the hell was wrong with him?

"A curse." Renard hesitated, but only for a second. His green eyes fixed on Nick with something Nick might, in a different man, have called trepidation. With Renard, it might as easily be deliberate. "I kissed her awake, and now it's tied us together," he said, his voice very soft. He lifted the memo pad, showed the repetitions of his name. "Obsessively."

Nick stared at him. _It wasn't the first time I've been under magical influence,_ Renard had said, the night before. And Rosalee's words from this morning ran through Nick's mind, connections forming: _Obsessed, eroticized fascination. Violently out of control. A mindless erotic haze._

A wave of heat swept over Nick's skin. _No._

"Don't you dare touch her," he snarled, moving forward with the force of his reaction, and damn, they were suddenly very close to each other.

"I'm trying," Renard snapped back, not budging an inch. His expression was firm and stern, as if that self-control meant anything in the face of what he'd just announced.

Adalind had done it again, and Renard was – Juliette was –

They were going to –

"Not good enough." Nick took another angry step, momentum carrying him, closing the last of the distance between them. Then he had Renard by the front of his shirt. He didn't let himself think, just swung them around and slammed Renard against the side of the car. _Keep going._ "You don't touch her. I don't care what Adalind did. You think a curse is an excuse to let you rape Juliette?"

Nick knew he'd gone too far the moment the words came out of his mouth, the same moment Renard's hand slapped into his face. Arousal flashed through him along with the rush of guilt, of shame, and he froze. His grip on Renard's shirt loosened. Belatedly, he realized their bodies were pressed together. Nick flinched, stumbling backwards.

Damn, he hadn't meant to – to –

Renard straightened angrily, stuffed the memo pad into a pocket and stalked towards Nick, didn't let him put distance between them. He leaned forward, color in his cheeks, his face twisted in anger. "Was that what you wanted?" he asked, a little breathlessly. "Did you like that? Say that again, and –"

Nick bared his teeth, returning the threat on sheer reflex. "And what?"

Renard's glare was nothing short of vicious, and his forbidding expression held Nick in place. "I'd say I'll put you over my knee and spank you," he snapped, "but you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?"

Nick drew in a sharp, involuntary breath. The image flashed through his mind: Renard gripping his shoulders, grabbing him by the neck, pushing him down. Putting a foot up on a tire and bending Nick over his knee, right here –

_No, no, no._

"Sorry," he ground out. He hadn't meant it to go quite like this. He'd only meant to lash out, to protect himself. He hadn't wanted this. Had he? "I'm sorry. I can't –"

All right, damn it all, he'd wanted _something_. And if this was as close as he could come –

They were still standing too close, staring at each other, locked. Nick couldn't look away. 

Damn it, _no_. Wanting, like anger, was a trap. 

Finally, it was Renard who pulled back. Renard's posture suddenly loosened, and he lowered his eyelids slightly as he studied Nick's expression. But no matter how well he managed to alter his body language, his voice was still tight when he said, "Trust me, no one wants this to stop more than I do."

"Which 'this'?" Belligerent. But damn, he hadn't meant to say that, either. Belatedly, Nick flinched. 

Renard's eyes widened. For an instant, they flickered towards Nick's chin, where a bruise was still clearly visible. Nick suppressed a shiver, and Renard's face closed.

"Don't provoke me," he said, something dark shivering in his voice, gleaming in his eyes. "Not unless you mean it."

 _But what if I do?_ Nick wasn't quite reckless enough, foolish enough, to say it out loud. But it was as if Renard could see the thought in his face, in the lines of his body, as if he knew, and moreover, _wanted_ to know, drinking in the sight.

Nick's lips parted in a wordless gasp. Was he seeing things, or did Renard really want –

Oh god. They wanted the same thing, didn't they? Maybe that slap had happened in the heat of the moment; maybe it had been deliberate – after yesterday, Renard must know exactly how to force a reaction from Nick. But it hadn't been just to jerk Nick out of his funk, had it? Renard had _wanted_ to. Had wanted that, and more.

They'd been an inch away from a spank, from a kiss, from more. If Nick moved now, if he pressed himself against Renard's body now, he'd feel Renard's hardness against his own. Adrenaline jolted through him, want and fear and need. Nick's cock twitched in his jeans, and he shifted his hips, desperately aware that Renard was seeing it all, that he knew.

It was both of them. They both knew.

God. Renard wanted to throw him down, to tie him up, to have him on his knees, Renard's cock in his mouth –

Nick swallowed against the sudden taste-memory. Cheeks and body burning, he turned away. Blood had rushed into his cock, his jeans were growing tight, and every sinew in his body felt as if at any moment it might snap in two at any moment, break under a tension too much to bear. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

 _I'm going to kill Adalind,_ Nick told himself, but it rang hollow now, no satisfaction in the image. She might deserve it, but none of his problems would be that easily defeated. 

"Nick." Renard's voice: he'd been silent for too long. "You needn't worry. I'm fully aware this can't go anywhere good."

The consideration grated.

"Yeah," Nick ground out. He turned back, managing to keep an inch of distance between them, no matter how tempted he was to cross it. Renard was right next to him, though, so close their clothes were brushing. Nick could feel his body heat. _I wasn't worried about that._

And he wasn't. With Renard this close. Renard, who had just slapped him, who had threatened to spank him, who _had_ spanked him the day before. Who'd knocked him around, beat him up, forced him down. Renard had done it all unwillingly – had been forced into acting out his subconscious desires as much as Nick had – but he'd still done it. Nick remembered it every second, too vividly, couldn't escape it at all. He _should_ be feeling threatened. But he wasn't.

Hadn't yesterday, either, not even after waking up from that Zaubertrank with his hands tied behind his back, Renard's come crusted between his thighs. 

He'd been angry, horrified, ashamed – aroused against his will. He'd been sick to his stomach, and worried about Renard's motives and plans. But even confronted with Renard glaring at him, raising a hand towards him with intent – even then, he'd never once worried Renard might step over the line.

Not that he knew where that line was, any more. 

Renard was right, though. Whatever he wanted, whatever Renard wanted – it didn't matter, couldn't matter. It could lead nowhere, could only spiral them out of control. If he let himself fall, he'd have to get up again, and face the world afterwards. 

So what if their kinks matched? That was a damn stupid reason to start something with a man he barely knew. A man he'd thought he'd known, and hadn't. A man who'd tried to kill his aunt, had nearly caused Hank's death. Never mind everything else – never mind Juliette – 

No. Under the influence of the Zaubertrank, all that had fallen away, but they were back in the real world now. 

Nick clenched his eyes shut for a second, then made himself look up, made himself meet Renard's gaze. Renard eyed him cautiously. A moment's hesitation. _Reality ..._ "We still need to talk about that curse."

Renard stilled. A muscle in his cheek twitched; then he nodded. "Yes. Believe me, if I knew how to stop it, I would. But maybe ..." He shrugged. "Now?"

It was still all there; Nick couldn't escape the intensity of what was burning between them. But they'd pulled back from the edge, and he could bear it, for now. He could set it aside.

Perhaps he could have, before, if he hadn't been so desperate to keep it at bay. A different kind of letting go. 

Nick nodded. "Let's go in."

  


* * *

  


They sat at a corner table, Renard courteous and careful, Nick making an effort to appear focused. If Renard expected Nick to fly off the handle again, if he was braced for it, Nick could hardly blame him. And Nick himself had, as always, taken note of the exits, of course: front entrance, kitchen, bathrooms, two fire exits. Just in case he'd need one, after all.

_Yeah, right. Escape routes. That's what you need._

He _needed_ to concentrate on the problems he could actually solve. He needed to remain here in the present, not let himself be overtaken by memory, by promise, false or not.

Here, with Renard, Renard's body angling towards his –

The waiter's cheerful smile wasn't merely artificial, but strained, and he was looking at them both strangely. Damn, the man must have seen Nick come in and leave, must have watched Renard go after him. God knew what he was thinking.

It wasn't until they'd placed their orders, until they'd had their drinks placed before them, that Nick finally spoke. "You shouldn't have kept this from me."

Renard leaned back in his seat, and crossed his arms in front of him, showing off his biceps, his body. Probably not deliberately, Nick thought, but his mouth went dry anyway.

"Maybe not," Renard said. "I didn't think it would help. Not given ... everything, yesterday."

Well. Wasn't that the truth. Nick took a sip from his glass to give himself a moment. But his eyes didn't stray from Renard, and the same was true in reverse. It should have been uncomfortable, should have been too much. It wasn't. "Adalind's not getting away with this," he murmured.

A faint smile flickered over Renard's face. "I hope not," he said. "But that won't break the curse." He appeared perfectly collected again, little though that meant. 

Before this weekend, if anyone had asked him what sort of establishment he thought Captain Renard might be found eating in on a Sunday, Nick would have suggested some sort of high-end restaurant. Something trendy and expensive and formal, with a chef Monroe would have an opinion about. But Renard seemed perfectly comfortable here.

Captain. Royal. Zauberbiest. Secrets and agendas, and hidden desires. How many sides were there to the man? And which side was he on, other than his own?

There was a cursed side, too. One that needed to be dealt with, and soon. Something still simmered under Nick's skin, threatening to break free at the thought of Renard and Juliette, Juliette and Renard. It was a pointless, useless feeling, and Nick crushed it down.

Everything that had happened - yesterday, today, every secret exposed from before - sat between them like a physical presence, sending waves of shivering heat over Nick's skin at the slightest provocation. Such as Renard's lips parting; Renard's eyes meeting his; Renard's body shifting just so. Or even a word that coalesced into a memory, a tone of voice, a sentiment.

"You said you don't know how to break it. Do you have someone you can talk to about this?" Adalind's curses weren't easily broken; Rosalee still hadn't found a cure for Juliette's memory loss. But surely Renard had people for something like that.

Renard's expression closed. "With Catherine dead?" 

Nick winced, then hoped Renard wouldn't take it as confirmation that he himself had killed the Hexenbiest. He hadn't. But he wasn't about to open that particular can of worms now.

God, it was strange, after everything, sitting and talking calmly with Renard, much less about such a fraught subject.

"Someone I'd trust with this?" Renard continued, shaking his head. "I did consult an expert, without giving details. He said Juliette and I would have to come in together. That's ... not easily accomplished."

Did Renard trust no one? But if _Adalind_ was any indication of the type of person he associated with, Nick thought darkly, that probably only made sense. It almost served him right, too.

Renard had a point, though. If breaking the curse required Juliette's cooperation – well, the days when all Nick would have had to do was ask were over. Juliette didn't know what had been done to her, and without her memory, she didn't trust Nick enough to go along just on his word.

"We'll figure it out," he said harshly. They had to. Besides – Juliette might have forgotten all about Nick, and had no reason to listen to Renard, obsession or no - but she did remember Monroe. Nick sat up straighter, managing a smile. "I have friends who've been trying to cure her memory loss. Someone Juliette knows. More importantly, someone she trusts. They could help."

Bringing Renard together with Monroe and Rosalee felt like crossing a boundary, but what other choice was there?

Something like hope flickered in Renard's eyes, but he only nodded. "How much do your friends know?"

"Pretty much everything about Adalind." At Renard's startled expression – surprised that Nick had told his friends? What the hell sort of life did Renard lead? – he conceded, "Well, not about yesterday." He grimaced at the very thought. All right, Rosalee had guessed some, but that was as far as it went. As far as it would ever go, if he had any choice at all.

Renard nodded slowly. "So your friends know about the sleeping curse, but not how it was broken. And about the memory loss, but not how to cure it. From your own reaction I take it they're not aware there might be more than that?" When Nick shook his head, he added, "Without Catherine, I suspect no one does. Other than Adalind, of course."

"Juliette sure as hell doesn't." Helpless to stop it - what must that be like? To suddenly find yourself obsessed with a man you barely knew, and to be aware of the suddenness, the strangeness of your own reactions, yet unable to stop. What must Juliette be going through? Nick's heart clenched. "We need to fix this."

"Yes." A grimace, and for a moment Nick thought Renard was going to stop there, but then he continued after all. "It needs to be fixed, Nick. You don't know how badly." Renard let out a bleak, humorless little laugh. "I'd sooner do yesterday all over again than go on with this."

It felt like a slap – the adrenaline, the awareness, the arousal. Nick bit down a hiss. 

Renard's outburst yesterday about the Zaubertrank – his visible upset at the knowledge of how narrowly they'd avoided worse, at what it said about him – that had been genuine. It couldn't have been anything else. For him to say he'd rather do that again –

"Yesterday's Zaubertrank," Renard said, his tone entirely clinical now, "didn't only bring out desires, but drowned out everything else. There was no awareness of its influence, and so no resistance. The curse ..." 

He looked away, more perturbed than Nick had ever seen him, including that awful outburst the night before when he'd talked about what Adalind had planned for them. What might have happened, had they been less ... _compatible_.

"Go on." The words were a whisper, forced out almost against Nick's will. His throat felt raw.

Renard lifted his glass and drank deeply, as if suddenly parched. Then his eyes turned quickly to Nick, and he started speaking rapidly, very low. Nick leaned closer to listen, though with every word, he wanted to flinch away.

"It creeps into your thoughts," Renard said, "forces itself into your mind, and you can watch it happen, feel it happen. You resist. You fight. But it keeps going. It keeps getting stronger. And you know that at some point you won't be able to keep yourself in check. It can only end in violence." 

"No." Nick's skin crawled. That couldn't happen, not to Juliette. And not to Renard either, whoever he truly was, whatever his goals might be. No one deserved that. 

"It's been growing for some time. In fact ..." A strange expression went over Renard's face, quixotic and fey. "Yesterday was the first time since I woke Juliette that I was entirely free of it."

Nick sucked in a sharp breath. He leaned back abruptly, his eyes flickering away, landing on the waiter just coming their way with their food. The man seemed far more genuinely cheerful now, though he was still looking at them with a strangely concerned expression.

Suddenly, realization hit. Oh god. The guy thought they were a couple, didn't he? A couple that had almost broken up, and was now trying to make up. Running out, one after the other, coming back ... And now the way they were sitting, close and bent towards each other; the soft, private conversation. The still-palpable tension between them, even if it no longer threatened to spill into aggression ...

And, of course, the hickey on Nick's chin, which was still pretty damn visible.

Nick, without meaning to, looked back to Renard, who was examining him with cool eyes. Nick glanced towards the waiter again; Renard's eyes followed, and then widened. For a moment Renard held very still; then his lips twitched. "Well," he said softly.

The food arrived then, and Renard schooled his expression. After the waiter had left, he shrugged, dismissing the incident as he picked up a knife.

Nick would have thought Renard would get a steak or an open-faced sandwich – something he could eat with a knife and fork, anyway. Instead, he'd ordered a hamburger, and now cut it in half and picked it up with his fingers as if he did it every day. More facets to the man.

Mechanically, Nick turned to his own food. _He_ had gone for a steak, not because he'd particularly wanted one, but just because it was the first thing that had occurred to him. Without appetite, he stabbed the meat with his fork, more harshly than strictly necessary.

And then, finally, he let himself think about what Renard had said, the horrifying picture he'd painted - willingly, without need. Yesterday, Renard had offered explanations from the start, gladly, but he'd needed anger, needed provocation, to give something personal away. Today, he seemed uncharacteristically open.

Why was Renard offering all this, just like that? He couldn't be exposing his emotional state for no reason; that wasn't like him. He was doing this on purpose. And yet, Nick couldn't doubt the genuine feeling behind it.

A moment later, his own certainty hit him like a brick.

He barely knew Renard, had only truly met the man the day before. After years of working for him, he'd had one day of a glimpse at who Renard truly was, and that was obscured by the extreme circumstances. By Renard's obsessive need for self-control, for negotiation. But all the same, he was sure he'd judged him right, just now.

He knew _something_ of Renard, all right. Something real; something more than just what the man liked in bed. What they both liked –

Nick flushed. He put another bite of steak in his mouth and chewed slowly, his thoughts racing. Renard's eyes were on him, and Nick couldn't read his expression at all. 

"I'll talk to your friends," Renard said finally, tentatively, as if he wasn't sure of himself. As if it was some kind of extravagant, extraordinary suggestion. "If we put all our information together, we may be in a better position to deal with this."

Nick nodded. "Let's do that." It was something to try, a clear road ahead. All the better that it kept them together, rather than putting them at odds.

They continued their meal in silence, strangely not uncomfortable. Nick still couldn't quite look away from Renard. It was indescribably strange, sitting there with Renard, not itching to fight, not itching to flee. The moment, with its bizarre easiness, was one that Nick would gladly have stayed in, if only he'd known how.

Renard ate neatly, making so little of a mess that he had to have dealt with big burgers like that on a far more regular basis than Nick would ever have expected. Every now and then, his tongue chased a bit of sauce or a crumb at the corner of his mouth, and Nick's throat tightened every time. Just that tiny glimpse of the tip of Renard's tongue cast a sudden, unanticipated glaze of _yes, this_ over every thought, every feeling, every inch of his skin.

He still wanted, _god,_ , he did. More, even, with getting to know Renard better, with putting together the pieces of him like a strange Wesen puzzle. 

_This_ man, pushing him to his knees, _this_ man's hand curling around the back of his neck, fingernails digging into his scalp as he urged him forward, towards –

Not some image of his captain, distant and authoritative and a stranger, but this man, Royal and Zauberbiest and secret machinations and all –

Blood rushed to his face, and his cock stirred in renewed, hot interest. Nick ducked his head. Renard said nothing. Thank god.

He'd struggled against this with everything he'd had, trying to keep the feelings, the memories, at bay – like Renard struggling against the curse that pulled him towards Juliette. But this wasn't the same; the feelings were his, were real. 

The realization seized him, seared through him: the moment he'd stopped looking at this as threat, it had become a temptation. But if he stopped fighting so hard, would he spiral out of control – 

Or would he simply be here, wanting, like any man who wanted something, wanted someone?

Half an hour ago, Nick had been sure of this: he didn't know Renard. He didn't trust Renard. He didn't really want this with _him_ , not in the real world, not with all the reasons not to. Now ... Perhaps he knew Renard after all, or was coming to know him, at least. A difficult, private man, but one willing to reach out, to make this work. Willing to push where needed, and willing to relent where not.

And trust?

Renard's first move, his first instinctive drive had become perfectly clear – it was always towards reasoning, towards negotiation. So long as the lines of negotiation remained open, so long as they were still talking, so long as there was still a different path open for them, Renard wouldn't force his hand, wouldn't push him too far.

And _that_ , dangerous as it was, frustrating as it could be, Nick could come to trust. 

Here, now, their eyes kept straying towards each other, the air between them heavy and hot like a physical connection between them. It would take so little to reach out, to say _damn it all_ to every reason why they shouldn't. Nick's jeans felt uncomfortably tight, and he tensed his muscles against the urge to squirm in his seat.

Under different circumstances, better circumstances, a date between them might have looked just like this. If there weren't reasons not to – _Juliette_ – 

Across the table, Renard picked up a fry and dipped it into the ketchup. Nick watched as he parted his lips, as the fry was pushed inside, as his throat worked. Renard's eyes flickered to his, and stopped. They were very green, and seemed to be magnetic. Nick couldn't bring himself to look away.

There were still reasons why this couldn't go anywhere, why he couldn't let it. But something was growing between them, all the same, whatever it might be, whatever it might become.

They had so much to discuss, so much to figure out. What to do about Adalind. How to handle their new awareness of each other. What to tell their own allies and friends. 

_We deal with this as best we can,_ Renard had said, the night before. It had seemed daunting, nigh-on impossible then. Somehow it didn't now, as if Nick had gone through an ordeal, pushed through some invisible barrier, had come out on the other side more unscathed than he'd dared hope for.

Like becoming a Grimm: once again, his world had upended itself, turned into something he no longer recognized. Everything around him had gone strange and wrong – but only until he'd found a way to make it his own. 

Then he'd found Monroe, who'd helped him take his first steps; he'd solved his first Wesen-related case and discovered he could do this and still be himself. Being a Grimm, being a detective, being Nick Burkhardt: they weren't incompatible after all.

And now –

A sudden shrill noise jerked him abruptly out of his thoughts. Nick looked up startled, recognizing his own phone, the loud ring tone he used to make sure he wouldn't miss an important call when he was out and about. Damn, he'd forgotten to turn it off.

Nick looked at phone, then quickly picked up. "Hank? What's up?"

Renard leaned back, giving him space.

"Nick. Listen, I'm in the hospital." Hank's voice was low and strained, slightly slurred. Injuries? Pain killers? 

"What?" Nick was suddenly wide awake, very aware of Renard's eyes on him. He didn't make a move to get up, to find privacy for this. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"I got lucky," Hank continued. "Just managed to call 911 before I passed out. I got beaten up in my own house, Nick. Didn't even see them clearly, but they were strong. Damn strong."

"You think -"

"Adalind was here, this morning. Told me a song and dance about being sorry things didn't work out and all. Well, and then ..." He trailed off. "Damn sure I think, man."

"Damn. Which hospital? I'm coming."

Across from him, Renard's eyes sharpened. Nick considered for a moment after Hank had hung up. What to tell Renard? 

"Hank got beaten up. I have to go." This much was simple, was obvious. Renard would have heard about that, no matter what. Nick hesitated a fraction of a second. "I think it was Wesen. He says Adalind was there just before." 

Trust? Alliance? Taking a chance? Something, at any rate. Answers had worked well for them, so far. Talking had. Anger and secrets never had.

Renard's eyebrows went up; his expression turned speculative. "Does Hank know? About your ... extracurricular activities, I mean." 

"Yeah. It was getting bad. I had to tell him." Damn, that sounded like he was justifying himself. Nick knew how secretive Wesen were, but Hank had been going half crazy, no longer trusting his own eyes. He'd had no choice. 

Renard only said, "Probably for the best."

Not what Nick had expected. More depths to the man. Nick shook off the thought, forced himself to turn to the issue at hand. "You said Adalind's working for your family. Hundjäger?"

"Verrat, yes. Most likely." Renard nodded, fully focused on practicalities again. Despite the setting, despite his outfit, despite everything, he suddenly looked very much like Captain Renard. Nick shivered. "It fits. She attempted to drive a wedge between you and me, now she takes your friend out of commission. She's trying to weaken you, Nick."

"I figured." He scowled. "We need to deal with her somehow." Strangling her sounded like a better and better option every day. No one knew who she'd target next?

"Keep that key safe," Renard advised. "You can't trust anyone with that thing."

Nick took the bait. After all, Renard had all but invited it. "Including you?" Unintended, it came out almost teasing. 

Renard leaned closer, sharp eyes on Nick. "I gave it back to you yesterday. Don't assume I would have the day before, or that I would tomorrow." A heartbeat's pause; Nick felt Renard's will like a physical force. Then the intensity melted, leaving a slightly sheepish smile in its place. "I'm deadly serious about that, Nick. On some subjects, paranoia is the only thing that'll keep you alive. Where my family is involved ..." An uncomfortable shrug.

Strangely, Nick thought he understood this. Maybe he wouldn't have yesterday – hell, maybe not this morning. But now –

So much had changed in just a few hours. No, Renard didn't have any intention of going for the key – but he thought he might be forced into it. Or at least he wanted to give that impression. If only in the service of making Nick more cautious. _Paranoia indeed._

"All right. Point taken." 

"Nick? Be careful. When she realizes her plan didn't work –"

"Hang on," Nick interrupted. "Isn't she still wanted for questioning in connection with her mother's death?" It was _his_ mother who'd killed Adalind's, but that was one thing he couldn't let Renard know. Not without a damn good reason, anyway.

Some secrets, after all, were not his to give away.

Renard threw him a darkly ironic look, but then, once again, brushed the issue of Catherine Schade's death aside. "You're right. We can use that."

"Later." Nick pushed to his feet almost unwillingly, his chair scraping over the floor. "I need to –"

Renard nodded. "You need to go to Hank." He paused, and his face worked; then, abruptly, he pushed his chair back as well. "I'll come with you."

"What?" 

Taken aback again: whatever Nick had expected of Renard, this wasn't it. If yesterday and today had made one thing clear to him, it was how very private and reserved a man Renard was. Far more so than Nick had known, given all the secrets Renard kept. And seeing Hank now meant giving himself away. Without any dire need. Why?

Renard shrugged with studied nonchalance. "You were going to tell Hank who I am anyway, weren't you?" A dry look. "I have little reason not to come, and a great deal of motivation to go after Adalind, if you'll recall. We need to pool our resources."

Practicality again. That rigorously, ruthlessly practical approach that could so easily be taken for utter callousness. Nick knew better now. And yet somehow, he was sure that wasn't all it was.

If Nick found it difficult to let go of the moment, this bizarre not-a-date they were having, the connection that had formed between them – perhaps that was true for Renard, too. 

Wanting and not having might taste bitter, compared to the sweetness of the promise - the release of it, the freedom of letting go – but it was a truth all the same. Something real – real as the punch Renard had thrown last night, as the slap he'd given Nick today, as the insights he'd offered. Something ... possible.

Something that could, in fact, be given to him: a better truth than he'd dared hoped for. Not a sham, after all. Something that could be fulfilled, even if not right here, right now. Though bitterest of all, hardest to swallow, was just how close it seemed, now. 

How almost his for the taking, except that he couldn't have this and Juliette both. 

For a moment he almost refused Renard's offer after all. Instead, in the end, Nick nodded. Took a leap. Let himself fall. 

"Can't argue with that," he murmured. 

Side by side they walked towards the door, united in purpose, on the same page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, moving out into the real world! 
> 
> Yes, there will be another sequel eventually. There's a reason this is tagged "slow burn". :)


End file.
